in Him."

I remember it because I remember William so well that evening. He
fitted into it as if it was his home. The great words seemed to belong
to him. They were his experience literally. They had the authority of
another simple, faithful, brave life behind them besides that of St.
Paul. And the people who listened knew it. If William had made a
great name and fame for himself out of preaching, if he had earned
fancy salaries as the pastor in rich churches it would have been
different. I don't know, of course, but it seems to me in that case
they might have clanged a little like sounding brass and tinkling
cymbals.

He stood in the little dim pulpit, the summer evening was fading, the
lamps in the church had not been lighted, and the faces of the village
folk were softened, sweetened in the gentle Sabbath gloom. He drew a
picture of Paul in prison at Rome, old and in anticipation of his end.
William never knew how to use words fancifully, therefore they used to
gather together truthfully in his sermons, as if he had wove them in.
And so now we had not an elegantly-painted portrait of St. Paul, but we
saw him really, the man who actually had counted all things but loss
for the excellency of the knowledge of Christ Jesus--so out of his
bonds in the spirit. It takes a rare preacher to portray one "found in
Christ." He cannot do it with the best theological vocabulary, nor
the finest scientific terms. But William, I cannot tell how he did
it--all I know is that every time he put his sentences together, they
cast again the image of the Saviour upon every heart before him. He
stood like a man who has his hand upon the latch-string of the door of
his Father's house, counting over one by one the things to be lost and
gained there. Nothing remained but a few simple things like loving one
another. He removed the world and the cares of it and set our feet in
the way of life like a wise man guiding little children.

If Horace Pendleton had put all he knew into one discourse, garnished
it with a thousand terms taken from the "new theology," he could not
have approached the awful simplicity and the high sweetness of that
sermon.

But one thing I must remember to tell; as long as he lived William
loved and honored this man with perfect devotion. That is the
wonderful thing about being good. You see it always, your eyes are
happily holden to evil. On the other hand, I had occasion to learn
after William's deat