“Well said, and He is love. Only believe.”
“I don’t know how to believe.”
“Like a poor, sick babe, all need, thou, amid thy weaknesses, hast power at least to cry.”
“Cry? What shall I cry?”
“‘Help thou mine unbelief.’”
Slowly, by wisely simple gospel-counsels, the aged teacher lead the penitent girl Christward. As they communed the congregation departed, and an attendant lighted the lamps. Presently the music of the organ again broke forth; but now in cheerful and triumphant strains. Miriamne listened, and as she did, a change came over her countenance. Her dawn was coming.
“Art looking up, daughter?”
“This music is like spring morning melodies, and I’m singing to it, in soul, I think.”
“It is the morning song of souls; the angel’s greeting to Mary. Observe the words; first the ‘Hail Mary’ before the wondrous birth; then the serene assurance of the mourning mother at the grave, ‘He is not here, He has risen.’”
“Ah, Adolphus, how blessed are you Christians in a religion all mercy, all songs, all love, and all nearness to God!”