of God, there is
everlasting peace there, like the fresh stillness of the early morning?
While the atheist lay wondering and afraid, God bent down and said:
"My child, here I am--I, whom you have not known; I, whom you have not
believed in; I am here. I sent My messenger, the white sheet-lightning,
to call you home. I am here."

Then the poor soul turned to the light--its weakness and pain were gone
forever.

Have they not known, have they not heard, who it is rules?

"For a little moment have I hidden my face from thee; but with
everlasting kindness will I have mercy upon thee, saith the Lord thy
Redeemer."

We mutter on to ourselves, till some one pulls us violently by the arm
to remind us we are in church. We see nothing but our own ideas.

Presently every one turns to pray. There are six hundred souls lifting
themselves to the Everlasting light.

Behind us sit two pretty ladies; one hands her scent-bottle softly to
the other, and a mother pulls down her little girl's frock. One lady
drops her handkerchief; a gentleman picks it up; she blushes. The women
in the choir turn softly the leaves of their tune-books, to be ready
when the praying is done. It is as though they thought more of the
singing than the Everlasting Father. Oh, would it not be more worship of
Him to sit alone in the karoo and kiss one little purple flower that he
had made? Is it not mockery? Then the thought comes, "What doest thou
here, Elijah?" We who judge, what are we better than they?--rather
worse. Is it any excuse to say, "I am but a child and must come?" Does
God allow any soul to step in between the spirit he made and himself?
What do we there in that place, where all the words are lies against the
All Father? Filled with horror, we turn and flee out of the place. On
the pavement we smite our foot, and swear in our child's soul never
again to enter those places where men come to sing and pray. We are
questioned afterward. Why was it we went out of the church.

How can we explain?--we stand silent. Then we are pressed further, and
we try to tell. Then a head is shaken solemnly at us. No one can think
it wrong to go to the house of the Lord; it is the idle excuse of a
wicked boy. When will we think seriously of our souls, and love going to
church? We are wicked, very wicked. And we--we slink away and go alone
to cry. Will it be always so? Whether we hate and doubt, or whether we
believe and love, to our dearest, are we to seem always w