"And do not you, too, believe that Christ is the Son of God?"
"I do not know what I believe--I believe nothing. Convince me that He was the Son of God and I will kneel to him in the dust."
"My dear son! It is not I, nor is it another, that can convince you. God, alone, extends the grace of faith. Have you ever asked for it?"
Kimberly started from his apathy. "I?" He relapsed again into moodiness. "No." The thought moved him to a protest. "How can I reach a far-off thing like faith?" he demanded with angry energy---"a shadowy, impalpable, evasive, ghostly thing? How can I reach, how can I grasp, what I cannot see, what I cannot understand?"
"You can reach it and you can grasp it. Such questions spring from the anger of despair; despair has no part in faith. Faith is the death of despair. From faith springs hope. It is despair that pictures faith to you as a far-off thing."
"Whatever it may be, it is not for me. I have no hope."
"What brought you to-night? Can you not see His grace in forcing you to come against your own inclination? His hope has sustained you when you least suspected it. It has stayed your hand from the promptings of despair. Faith a far-off thing? It is at your side, trembling and invisible. It is within your reach at every moment. You have but to put forth your hand to touch it."
Kimberly shook his bowed head.
"Will you stretch forth your hand--will you touch the hem of His garment?"
Kimberly sat immovable. "I cannot even stretch forth a hand."