ering. I have been living in a
perfect hell of contradictions ever since I took that pledge. My
little girl, Diana you remember, also took the pledge with me. She
has been asking me a great many questions lately about the poor
people and where they live. I was obliged to answer her. One of her
questions last night touched my sore! 'Do you own any houses where
these poor people live? Are they nice and warm like ours?' You know
how a child will ask questions like these. I went to bed tormented
with what I now know to be the divine arrows of conscience. I could
not sleep. I seemed to see the judgment day. I was placed before the
Judge. I was asked to give an account of my deeds done in the body.
'How many sinful souls had I visited in prison? What had I done with
my stewardship? How about those tenements where people froze in
winter and stifled in summer? Did I give any thought to them except
to receive the rentals from them? Where did my suffering come in?
Would Jesus have done as I had done and was doing? Had I broken my
pledge? How had I used the money and the culture and the social
influence I possessed? Had I used it to bless humanity, to relieve
the suffering, to bring joy to the distressed and hope to the
desponding? I had received much. How much had I given?'

"All this came to me in a waking vision as distinctly as I see you
two men and myself now. I was unable to see the end of the vision. I
had a confused picture in my mind of the suffering Christ pointing a
condemning finger at me, and the rest was shut out by mist and
darkness. I have not slept for twenty-four hours. The first thing I
saw this morning was the account of the shooting at the coal yards.
I read the account with a feeling of horror I have not been able to
shake off. I am a guilty creature before God."

Penrose paused suddenly. The two men looked at him solemnly. What
power of the Holy Spirit moved the soul of this hitherto
self-satisfied, elegant, cultured man who belonged to the social
life that was accustomed to go its way placidly, unmindful of the
great sorrows of a great city and practically ignorant of what it
means to suffer for Jesus' sake? Into that room came a breath such
as before swept over Henry Maxwell's church and through Nazareth
avenue. The Bishop laid his hand on the shoulder of Penrose and
said: "My brother, God has been very near to you. Let us thank Him."

"Yes! yes!" sobbed Penrose. He sat down on a chair and covered his