infinite value to Him." And then his
wonderful memory came to his aid in an appeal such as no one on
earth among men could make under such circumstances. He had
remembered the man's name in spite of the wonderfully busy years
that lay between his coming to the house and the present moment.

"Burns," he said, and he yearned over the men with an unspeakable
longing for them both, "if you and your friend here will go home
with me tonight I will find you both places of honorable employment.
I will believe in you and trust you. You are both comparatively
young men. Why should God lose you? It is a great thing to win the
love of the Great Father. It is a small thing that I should love
you. But if you need to feel again that there is love in the world,
you will believe me when I say, my brothers, that I love you, and in
the name of Him who was crucified for our sins I cannot bear to see
you miss the glory of the human life. Come, be men! Make another try
for it, God helping you. No one but God and you and myself need ever
know anything of this tonight. He has forgiven it the minute you ask
Him to. You will find that true. Come! We'll fight it out together,
you two and I. It's worth fighting for, everlasting life is. It was
the sinner that Christ came to help. I'll do what I can for you. O
God, give me the souls of these two men!" and he broke into a prayer
to God that was a continuation of his appeal to the men. His pent-up
feeling had no other outlet. Before he had prayed many moments Burns
was sitting with his face buried in his hands, sobbing. Where were
his mother's prayers now? They were adding to the power of the
Bishop's. And the other man, harder, less moved, without a previous
knowledge of the Bishop, leaned back against the fence, stolid at
first. But as the prayer went on, he was moved by it. What force of
the Holy Spirit swept over his dulled, brutal, coarsened life,
nothing but the eternal records of the recording angel can ever
disclose. But the same supernatural Presence that smote Paul on the
road to Damascus, and poured through Henry Maxwell's church the
morning he asked disciples to follow in Jesus' steps, and had again
broken irresistibly over the Nazareth Avenue congregation, now
manifested Himself in this foul corner of the mighty city and over
the natures of these two sinful sunken men, apparently lost to all
the pleadings of conscience and memory and God. The prayer seemed to
red open the crust that fo