"That's because you don't know him. If you were severely wounded, would you be frightened to know that a good physician was right at hand to heal you?"
"But isn't God too infinite and far away to listen to listen to the story of my weakness and folly? I dare not think of him. My difficulty is just this—he IS God, and what am I?"
"One of his little children, my dear. Yes, he is infinite, but not far away. In the worst of my weakness and folly he listened patiently, and helped me out of my trouble. How are you going to get over this fact? He has listened to and helped multitudes of others in every kind of trouble and wrong. How are you going to get over these facts?"
Ida slowly wiped her eyes. Her face grew very pale, and she looked at Mr. Eltinge steadily and earnestly, as if to gather from his expression and manner, as well as words, the precise effect of her confession.
"Mr. Eltinge," she said, "at this time yesterday I did not expect to be alive to-day. I expected to be dead, and by my own hand. Will God forgive such wickedness?"
"Dead!" exclaimed the old gentleman, starting up.
"Yes," said Ida, growing still paler and trembling with apprehension, but still looking fixedly at Mr. Eltinge as if she would learn from his face whether she could hope or must despair because of her intended crime.
"And what changed your awful purpose, my child?" he said, very gravely.
"Your words at the prayer-meeting last night."
The old gentleman removed his hat and reverently bowed his head.
"O God," he murmured, "thou hast been merciful to me all my days;
I thank thee for this crowning mercy."