"You must look to God for strength," said Mrs. Greenough, who had listened in silence to our conversation.
"I have, madam; but he does not hear the prayer of such a wretch as I am."
"You wrong him, Mr. Farringford," replied the widow, solemnly. "He hears the prayers of the weakest and the humblest. You have no strength of your own; seek strength of him. My husband was reduced as low as you are. For ten years of his life he was a miserable drunkard; but he was always kind to me. Hundreds of times he promised to drink no more, but as often broke his promise. I became interested in religion, and then I understood why he had always failed. I prayed with my husband, and for him. He was moved, and wept like a child. Then he prayed with me, and the strength of purpose he needed came from God. He was saved, but he never ceased to pray. He redeemed himself, and never drank another drop. Before he died, he had paid for this house, besides supporting us very handsomely for ten years."
"That is hopeful, madam; but I am afraid I am too far gone. I have no wife to pray with me," said my father, gloomily.
"I will pray with you."
Throwing herself upon her knees before a chair, she poured forth her petition for the salvation of the drunkard with an unction that moved both him and me. I heard my father sob, in his weakness and imbecility. He was as a little child, and was moved and influenced like one.
"You must pray yourself, Mr. Farringford," said she, when she had finished. "You must feel the need of help, and then seek it earnestly and devoutly."
"I thank you, madam, for all your kindness. I will try to do better. I will try to pray," said he. "Could you give me some more of the medicine I took last night and this morning? It helped me very much."
"Certainly I can. I will do everything in the world for you, if you will only stay here and try to get well."