What that is, some know, and many a man converted
late in life has imagined with heart-wrung envy: an Augustine, already
numbered with the Saints, a Prodigal robed and decked with more than
pardon, haunted yet by dark shadows of the past, the husks and the
swine. My boy, with an unstained youth yet before you to mould as you
will, get to yourself the elder son's portion--'Thou art ever with
Me, and all that I have is thine.' And what GOD has for those who
abide with Him, even here, who can describe? It's worth trying for,
lad; it would be worth trying for, on the chance of GOD fulfilling His
promises, if His Word were an open question. How well worth any
effort, any struggle, you'll know when you stand where I stand
to-night."
We had reached the front steps of the house as he said this. The last
few sentences had been spoken in jerks, and he seemed alarmingly
feeble. I shrank from understanding what he meant by his last words,
though I knew he did not refer to the actual spot on which we stood.
The garden was black now in the gloaming. The reflection from the
yellow light left by the sunset in the west gave an unearthly
brightness to his face, and I fancied something more than common in
the voice with which he quoted:
"Jesu, spes poenitentibus,
Quam pius es petentibus!
Quam bonus te quaerentibus!
_Sed quid invenientibus_!"
But I was fanciful that Sunday, or his nervous "fads" were infectious
ones; for on me also the superstition was strong to-night that it was
"the last time.
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