So said John Harvey as he walked with a friend under a dripping umbrella. John Harvey was a skeptic of thirty years standing and apparently hardened in his unbelief. Everybody had given him up as hopeless. Reasoning ever so calmly made no impression on the rocky soil of his heart. Alas! it was sad, very sad!
But one friend had never given him up. When spoken to about him— "I will talk with and pray for that man until I die," he said; "and I will have faith that he may yet come out of darkness into the marvelous light."
And thus whenever he met him (John Harvey was always ready for a "talk,") Mr. Hawkins pressed home the truth. In answer, on that stormy night, he said: "God can change a skeptic, John. He has more power over your heart than you, and I mean still to pray for you."
"Oh, I have no objections, none in the world—seeing is believing, you know. I'm ready for any miracle; but I tell you it would take nothing short of a miracle to convince me. Let's change the subject. I'm hungry and it's too far to go up town to supper on this stormy night. Here's a restaurant: let us stop here."
How warm and pleasant it looked in the long, brilliant dining saloon!
The two merchants had eaten, and were just on the point of rising when a strain of soft music came through the open door—a child's sweet voice.
"'Pon my word, that is pretty," said John Harvey; "what purity in those tones!"
"Out of here, you little baggage!" cried a hoarse voice, and one of the waiters pointed angrily to the door.
"Let her come in," said John Harvey.
"We don't allow them in this place, sir," said the waiter, "but she can go into the reading-room."