Then a second thought came to him—she knew, and yet she forgave him—she knew, and yet she loved him.
She was preparing for his return, getting ready for him.
Now that she was acquainted with the prison in which he was wearing out his months of captivity, perhaps she would even come on the day that captivity was over, perhaps she would meet him at the prison gates, and take his hand, and lead him home to the little old home, and show him the clothes of his innocent, happy childhood, ready for him to put on, and perhaps she would kiss him—kiss the face that had been covered with the prisoner’s mask—and tell him she loved him and forgave him! Would she do this, and would he go with her?
“I am Jesus whom thou persecutest.”
Back again came the sermon and its text to his memory.
“Every time you commit a theft, or even a much smaller sin, you persecute Jesus,” said the preacher.
Jenks had known about Jesus, but hitherto he had thought of Him simply as an historical character, as a very good man—now he thought of Him as a man good for him, a man who had laid down His life for him, and yet whom he persecuted.
If he went on being a thief he would persecute Jesus—that was plain. And little Flo had said in her letter that God loved him, God and Jesus loved him. Why, if this was so, if his mother loved him, and God loved him, and the old little bright home was open to him, and no word of reproach, but the best robe and the fatted calf waiting for him, would it be wise for him to turn away from it all? to turn back into that dark wilderness of sin, and live the uncertain, dangerous life of a thief, perhaps be unlucky, and end his days in a felon’s cell? And when it all was over—the short life—and no life was very long—to feel his guilty soul dragged before God to receive the full vials of the wrath of Him whom he had persecuted.
He was perplexed, overcome, his head was reeling; he cast himself full length on the floor of his cell—he could think no longer—but he pressed the grey lock and the brown to his lips.