"Pray now, quick. Tell him I want my little girl again. Tell him anything you want to."
I took the hands of the child, and placed them on the trembling hands of the man. Then, dropping on my knees, with the child in front of me, I bade her pray for the man who had lost his little Mamie, and wanted to see her again. As nearly as I remember, this was Mamie's prayer:—
"Dear Jesus, this man is sick. He has lost his little girl, and he feels bad about it. I'm so sorry for him, and he's sorry, too. Won't you help him, and show him how to find his little girl? Do, please. Amen."
Heaven seemed to open before us, and there stood One with the prints of the nails in his hands and the wound in his side.
Mamie slipped away soon, and the man kept saying: "Tell him more about it. Tell him everything. But, O, you don't know!" Then he poured out such a torrent of confession that I could not have borne it but for One who was close to us at that hour.
By and by the poor man grasped the strong hand. It was the third day when the poor, tired soul turned from everything to him, the Mighty to save, "the Man that died for me." He lived on for weeks, as if God would show how real was the change. I had been telling him one day about a meeting, when he said, "I'd like to go to a meetin' once."
So we planned a meeting, and the men from the mills and the mines came and filled the room.
"Now, boys," said he, "get down on your knees, while she tells about that
Man that died for me."
I had been brought up to believe that a woman should not speak in meeting, but I found myself talking, and I tried to tell the simple story of the cross. After a while he said:—
"Boys, you don't half believe it, or you'd cry; you couldn't help it. Raise me up. I'd like to tell it once."