"God does not despise the poor," said Emma. "When his Son came to live among men, the poor of this world were his chosen friends and companions."
"Perhaps so," the poor man said, and turned his head mournfully away: "if poverty were all——"
"He does not despise the sinner either," said Emma, softly; "so far from that, he delivered his only Son unto death for their sake."
Graffam lifted his eyes from the ground, and looked seriously into her face.
"There was a time, miss," said he, "when that was a precious thought to me. Then to know that God was my friend, was enough, and I was happy; but that time is passed. I parted with his friendship to gain that of the world, and now I have lost, hopelessly lost all—all!"
This was said in a tone of deep despair: so deep and sad, that it called tears of pity to Emma's eyes, as she earnestly replied,—
"O do not say that his friendship is hopelessly lost, Mr. Graffam; for you know, sir, that he does not hate what the world hates. He hates nothing but sin, and even from that his great mercy separates the sinner, and makes him an object of love. Jesus, Mr. Graffam, is the sinner's friend."
"Yes, miss," replied the poor man; though Emma saw that the faith of this great truth did not enter his heart. There was no room as yet for so pure a faith. The soul's great idol, whatever it be,—the "man of sin" sitting in the place of God,—must be dethroned before the Holy will enter in. Yet Emma's words stirred still more those powers of the soul which Graffam had felt that morning struggling franticly with their chains. There was a strange mixture of hope and despair in the expression of his countenance, as he turned away, bidding her a sad "good-morning."
"O," thought Emma, as she looked after him, "is there none to help? Poor Mr. Graffam might become a good and useful man: his family might live out among people, and be happy. I pity them from my very heart;" and thinking over the matter, Emma walked out into the road, wandering down the hill, across the bridge, beneath which the bright waters glided very soberly that morning. Here she paused awhile, looking over the wooden railing at the reflection of her own thin figure and pale face. "O Emma," she said, "what thou doest, do quickly; for there is neither work, knowledge, nor device in the grave, to which thou art hastening."
Slowly, and somewhat wearily, she ascended the opposite bank, and then away in his field, working busily, she saw friend Sliver. She knew him by the broad-brimmed hat, which now and then bobbed up above the wall as the old man picked up the stones, and then resumed his hoe.