But Davy waited, watching him with those great eager eyes.
He must say something, but he could not pray.
"Don't you want me to sing for you?" he asked.
"Oh, yea, I'd like that, it you can't pray."
So Duncan sang a sweet little hymn, and when it was ended, acting upon a new idea, he slid down upon his knees beside the dying child, and said—
"Jesus, friend of sinners, I would speak to Thee for this sick boy. Wilt Thou come and stand very near to him, and support him as he goes from this life into the next? He loves and trusts Thee. Do not let his faith falter; do not withdraw thyself from him until he goes to be where he shall ever dwell in Thy presence."
The words were few, but the longing heart was satisfied, and the feeble voice just whispered,—
"He heard—he came."
Duncan hurried away, the tumult in his soul in no degree stilled. He had fought many hard battles with that fiery temper and headstrong will of his, but never had he passed through such a struggle as that day witnessed. In the evening, he went again to the young people's meeting. Without waiting to be asked this time, he said, "Last Thursday evening, I refused to pray. The truth is, I dared not pray as a Christian, and I was not prepared to humble myself and confess my sin. Tonight I am ready to acknowledge that I have wandered far from the white line which I have so long professed to follow, but I am glad to say that I think I have found the true path again. I will tell you how I got astray. Worldly pleasures enticed me, and I set aside the apostolic command, 'Be not conformed to the world.' Let us pray."
But Clarence Golden was not there to hear the confession of error, and years after, the thought of Duncan would bring a curl to his lip, and the bitter reflection, "I was nearer to being a Christian that winter than ever before or since, and if Duncan had been true, I might have been saved three years of doubt and scepticism."