“I tell you, I would give my life to feel in my heart that He is my Saviour.”
“Then lissen,” said Adam, pulling out from his breast-pocket a well-worn New Testament, the precious companion of his solitary labours. Turning to a particular verse, “This,” said he, “is the Wod o’ God, the testiment ov Jesus Christ You beleeave it, deean’t yo’?”
“Yes,” said the eager youth, “every word of it.”
“Then remember, what ah’s gannin’ te read, is what God says te you. You weean’t doot Him, will yo’?” His large horn-framed spectacles were drawn from their wooden sheath; having adjusted them to assist his failing vision, he held the little volume with a loving reverence, and took off his hat as if God Himself was about to speak. “Lissen!” said he, and then he read slowly and deliberately, “He bare our sins in his own body on the tree.” Turning over the pages, he read, “‘Whosoever believeth on him the same shall be saved.’ You don’t doot it, de yo’?”
“No,” said Philip, eagerly, “go on!”
“You’re boddened wi’ your sins? Lissen! ‘He bare ’em Hisself! Philip Fuller, if He hez borne your sins, why sud you beear t’ bodden as weel? Whosoiver beleeaveth sal be saved. There it is. Cast ’em on ’im! Leeave ’em tiv Him, for it’s true!”
Even while the old man spoke, the scales began to fall. Philip Fuller saw men as trees walking. Silent and with parted lips, he looked upon his humble teacher; his soul was listening to the words of truth. Then he felt a wish to be alone.
“Thank you, Adam Olliver. I’ll come and see you again.” Then, turning his horse towards Waverdale Park, he began to turn over in his mind the words he had just heard—“The word of the Lord by the mouth of his servant,” Adam Olliver.
Meanwhile, that good man stood looking after the retreating youth, with a smile of triumph and a tear of joy mingling on his cheek. “He’s thahne, Lord, seeave him!” he said aloud, and then, retiring to a little clump of trees, where Balaam was listlessly cropping the grass, more for occupation than through hunger, Adam knelt in prayer; there were few spots on Farmer Houston’s farm which had not been consecrated by his secret devotions. He pleaded fervently, as one who had but to ask and have, for the struggling penitent whom he had just pointed to the Lamb of God. Praises soon mingled with his prayers, and he rose from his knees, assured and happy.
“Balaam!” said he, as he went back to his employment, “an heir ov glory hez been born te-day!”