p. The letter ended:

"If you are not indifferent whether the labours of an aged father for
above forty years in God's vineyard be lost, and the fences of it
trodden down and destroyed; if you have any care for our family,
which must be dismally shattered as soon as I am dropped; if you
reflect on the dear love and longing which this dear people has for
you, whereby you will be enabled to do God the more service; and the
plenteousness of the harvest, consisting of near two thousand souls,
whereas you have not many more scholars in the University; you may
perhaps alter your mind, and bend your will to His, who has promised,
if in all our ways we acknowledge Him, He will direct our paths."

CONCLUSION.

CHAPTER I.

"Unto him that worketh not, but believeth on Him that justifieth the
ungodly, his faith is counted to him for righteousness."

All the world has heard how John Wesley rode, eight years later, into
Epworth; and how, his father's pulpit having been denied to him, he
stood outside upon his father's tomb and preached evening after
evening in the warm June weather the gospel of Justification by Faith
to the listening crowd. Visitors are shown the grit slab, now recut
and resting on a handsome structure of stone, but then upon plainest
brickwork; and are bidden to notice, in the blank space below the
words "Their works do follow them," two rough pieces of ironstone
which mark where the preacher's feet rested.

Eight evenings he preached from it, and on the third evening chose
for his text these words: "Unto him that worketh not, but believeth
on Him that justifieth the ungodly, his faith is counted to him for
righteousness."

Under a sycamore by the churchyard wall at a little distance from the
crowd a man stood and listened--a clergyman in a worn black gown, a
man not old in years but with a face prematurely old, and shoulders
that already stooped under the burden of life--John Whitelamb.
He watched between fear and hope to be recognised. When the preacher
mounted the slab, stroked back his hair and, turning his face towards
the sycamore, fixed his eyes (as it seemed) upon the figure beneath
it, he felt sure he had been recognised: a moment later he doubted
whether that gaze had passed over him in forgetfulness or contempt.

He felt himself worthy of contempt. They had been too hard for him,
these Wesleys. They had all departed from Epworth, years before, and
left him, who had been their