"Hard as it is, my darling," he said, "to fulfill that pledge, I must do it. I dare not do otherwise. In fact, lest I should waver again in my resolve, I immediately wrote the mission board, and am now appointed to my old field, to sail the coming October. I have placed myself under the instruction of a returned missionary, and shall prepare myself, as far as possible, during the intervening months for my life work. I know that you, painful as our separation will be, will nevertheless approve of my decision. As you once said, I by God's grace can now say, 'Though I cannot understand, yet I can trust him.'"
The fair face was perhaps a trifle paler, but the voice that answered him was perfectly steady and almost triumphant in its tones: "It is all right, Ray. I knew of your struggle. These locks"—and she lightly brushed his hair—"have told the story of your anguish; but threaded as they are with gray they are infinitely more precious to me, for they tell of a victory won over self. Let me tell you too, Ray darling, I do not believe God has raised me from that sick bed for nothing. You may have to go out alone and for a time we may be separated. But I believe the Saviour has called me to that work, and sooner or later I shall toil by your side. It may seem unmaidenly, but I promise you that when duty at home is over, I shall hasten across the seas to you, and our union and our toil will perhaps be worth all the more because we have made even this our sacrifice for Jesus' sake."
"God bless you for those words, darling; they have given me a hope that will brighten my toil and make me more willing to undergo the sacrifice," he replied. And, rising, he bent down over her fair face and pressed kiss after kiss upon her lips.
"There, that will do, sir," she at length cried, with something of her old mirth, and struggling for breath; "nothing but the fact that you are so soon to leave me reconciles me to such prodigality on your part." Then, with tears coming into her eyes, "You will be with me as often as possible, Ray? Our long separation will come quickly, and I am selfish enough to want you with me every moment you can spare until then."
"I will come down as often as possible until September," he answered. "Then I will come here, and remain until the hour of my departure is at hand."
He went back to Easton the next morning happier, notwithstanding the approaching separation from Daisy, than he had been for months. He was in the line of duty again, and once more he was conscious of the Spirit's presence and power.
It was a Saturday, and on his arrival at Easton a press of work was upon him until a late hour that night. Quite exhausted, not far from midnight he threw himself upon his bed, and soon fell asleep. Philosophers tell us that our dreams are a continuation of our waking thoughts. Be this as it may, Ray soon had a vision or dream quite in keeping with his thoughts and feelings of the whole day before. He felt himself suddenly surrounded by an intense glory; an inexpressible happiness filled his soul; the brightness grew so vivid he could not keep his eyes open. But a moment later he felt a hand laid upon his head, and a voice, loving and tender, said: "God is able to make all grace abound toward you; that ye, always having all sufficiency in all things, may abound to every good word and work." Thrice did the voice utter these words; and then the hand was removed, the brightness gradually faded away, but the happiness remained. It was a joy unlike any Ray had experienced before—deeper, richer, holier far. He felt that he had been baptized anew with the Holy Ghost.
He went to his pulpit the following morning with the power of that divine touch and commendation upon him. He preached with a freshness and vigor that moved the great audience before him; in the evening prayer meeting, souls inquired the way to Jesus. With the suddenness of a meteor's glare the power of the Spirit burst in mighty revival upon that church and congregation. For ten weeks Ray stood nightly in his pulpit and proclaimed the word of life; hundreds inquired: "What shall I do to be saved?" Then, from sheer exhaustion, Ray stopped. His church officers called on him, and said:
"Pastor, go off and rest. Stay one week or more, as you please. We will do what we can to continue these services; but you have earned, nay, your physical condition demands, absolute rest."
The next train took Ray to Afton. There was no place where he could rest as he could in the Lawton cottage. His extra labor had kept him too from Daisy; and he felt he now had earned the right to spend a few days by her side. He had not realized how exhausted he was until he got out at the Afton station, and started to walk up the avenue. From sheer weakness he was forced to call a carriage, and be driven around to the cottage door. It was now the middle of May, and the day was bright and sunny. So it happened Daisy was out on the veranda as the carriage stopped at the gate, and he alighted, and, with feeble step, advanced up the walk. She sprang to meet him, with a cry of alarm.