He read in that same sweet, melogious voice I remembered so well, Paul’s wonderful words about how he wuz led from the blackness of unbelief up into the Great Light, and how he wuz caught up into the Third Heaven and saw things so great and glorious that it would not be lawful for man to speak of them, and where he goes on to tell of his belief, his hope and his faith. The text wuz Paul’s words when he recalls those divine hours up on the heights alone with God:
“Wherefore not being disobedient to the heavenly vision.”
And as he went on, as uplifted as I wuz, I felt fearful ashamed to think how many times I had been disobedient to the Heavenly vision, the white ideals that shone out in my mind so high and clear in the mornin’ light, and I wuz so sure I could reach. But havin’ set down to 345 rest in the heat of the day, and bein’ drawn off into the shadders and thickets of environin’ cares and perplexities, I didn’t git nigh enough to grasp holt of, and I whispered as much to my pardner.
And he said he felt different, he had always ever sence he sot out marched right straight towards the Kingdom.
Sez I, “Josiah Allen, hain’t you ever meandered at all from that straight and narrer way?”
“No mom, not a inch, not a hair’s breadth.” I wuz dumb-foundered by his conceit as many times as I had witnessed it.
The sermon that follered wuz white and glowin’ with the light of Heaven. You could see that he had not been disobedient to that Divine vision that had been revealed to him. The deep sweet look of his eyes told of them supreme heights his own soul had reached. Upliftin’, sympathizin’, soul searchin’, callin’ on the best in every heart there to rise up and try to fly Heavenward.
His looks and words rousted up my soul and carried me off so fur from the world and Piller Pint, that I lost sight entirely of the crowd around me. But anon I hearn a voice at my side and I see Faith had come back onbeknown to me (she had been in Sister Meechum’s tent mendin’ a rent in her dress). But when I 346 looked at her I realized how the face of St. Stephen looked. It sez, “His face shone like the face of an angel.” Faith’s looked jest so, only tears wuz slowly droppin’ from her eyes and runnin’ down her white cheeks. Sez I, whisperin’ to her with or in my axents,
“What is it, Faith? What is it, dear? Is it the Power?”
I most knew it wuz, and I wuz mekanically turnin’ it over in my mind what I should do with her if she fell over prostrate, and where I should lay her out. When she turned, her glowin’ awe-struck eyes held a world of joy and glory in each one on ’em.