A new name

by Grace Livingston Hill

“You can teach them how to confess their sins, can’t you? You can show them the way to Jesus I’m sure, now that you have found it yourself? You have not finished your confession here until you have met your class and made it right with them, my boy. I’m counting on your testimony to bring those boys to the Lord Jesus.”

Murray’s face softened.

“Could I do that,” he asked thoughtfully, with a luminous look in his eyes, “would you trust me to do that when I will in all probability be in jail next Sunday?”

“You could do that, my son, and I will trust you to do it. I want you to do it. It will make the jail bright around you to remember that you had this opportunity to testify before the opportunity passed by forever. You have made an impression on those boys, and you must make sure that it is not spoiled. Tell them the truth. Show them how Jesus forgives. Show them that it is better to confess soon than late.”

So Murray taught his Sunday-school class, taught it in such a way that every boy in the class felt before it was over that he had been personally brought before the judgment seat of God and tried. Taught it so well that several boys went home and took out personal and private sins that had been hidden deep in their hearts, and renounced them in boyish prayers, in dark rooms at night, after the rest of the house was sleeping. Taught it so powerfully that the superintendent nodded toward the class, and said in a low tone to the minister, “What are we going to do about that young man? Isn’t there some way to keep him here? The real man can’t possibly take his place now. Those boys will resent his presence, no matter how fine he is.”

A moment later the minister stood behind that class for a moment and noticed the sober, thoughtful faces of the boys. The usual restless merriment was not present. The boys had been in touch for a half hour with the vital things of the soul, and had no time for trifling. He watched them a moment as the closing hymn was announced. Then he laid a hand on the shoulder of the teacher.

“Now, Murray,” he said, using his first name familiarly with a fatherly accent, “I’m ready to take you over to Wood’s Corners. We’ll just slip out this door while they’re singing. We’ll have plenty of time to get back for the evening service. Mrs. Summers has put us up a lunch we can eat on the way back, and so we needn’t hurry.”

XXV

It was very still in the small gloomy room of the little country hospital where the sick man had been taken when it had been determined to operate on him. The woman down the hall who had been having hysterics every two or three days had been moved to the next floor, and her penetrating voice was not so constantly an annoyance. The baby across the hall was too desperately ill to cry, and the other patients had dropped off to sleep. The hall was almost as quiet as night.

The patient lay with his eyes closed and a discouraged droop to his nicely chiselled mouth. His red curls had been clipped close under the bandages, but one could see they were red. He had long, capable fingers, but they lay pallid and transparent on the cheap coverlet, as if they never would work again. His whole attitude betokened utter rout and discouragement. As he lay there, still as death and almost as rigid, a tear stole slowly out from under the long dark lashes. A weak warm tear. He brushed it away impatiently with his long thin hand, and turned over with a quick-drawn sigh. Even the effort of turning over was a difficult and slow performance. He felt so unacquainted with the muscles of his heavy inert body. He wondered if he ever again would walk around and do things like other people.