"Yes."
"I was cold at the heart of religion. I was not happy. I knew what I wanted—more love to Christ."
"You did love him."
"Yes; but you know what it is just to love him a little. I went as duty bade me; but the love of him did not make all duty happy. I had seen you live differently—I saw others—and I could not be content as I was.
"We were in town then. One night I sat up all night, and gave the whole night to it."
"To seeking Jesus?"
"I wanted to get out of my coldness and find him!"
"And you found him?"
"Not soon. I spent the night in it. I prayed—and I walked the floor and prayed—and I shed a great many tears over the Bible. I felt as if I must have what I wanted—but I could not seem to get any nearer to it. The whole night passed away—and I had wearied myself—and I had got nothing.
"The dawn was just breaking, when I got up from my knees the last time. I was almost giving up in despair. I had done all I could—what could I do more? I went to the window and opened it. The light was just creeping up in the sky—there was a little streak of brightness along the horizon, or of light rather, but it was the herald of brightness. I felt desolate and tired, and like giving up hope and quest together. The dull grey canopy overhead seemed just like my heart. I cannot tell you how enviously I looked at the eastern dawn, wishing the light would break upon my own horizon. I shall never forget it. It was dusky yet down in the streets and over the housetops; the city had not waked up in our quarter; it was still yet, and the breath of the morning's freshness came to me and revived me and mocked me both at once. I could have cried for sadness, if I had not been too down-hearted and weary.