Presently Dr. Waddell lifted up a face, wet with tears, straightened slowly his tall, gaunt form, lifted his left arm with solemn impressiveness, and pointing and looking upward, with a gesture of indescribable faith and assurance, said, in tones which rang in glad triumph, though an echo of the recent sobs of penitence still lingered in them,
"Friends—Socrates died like a philosopher, Jesus Christ like a God."
The effect was marvelous. The moans and the sobbing ceased, and all over the church men, women, and children bowed their heads, and wept tears of thankfulness, while the preacher went on to describe the last scenes of the crucifixion:—the rent veil of the temple, the darkness, the earthquake, the terror of the soldiers—divine signs that no mere man, but the Son of God Himself had here offered up His life a free sacrifice to satisfy Divine justice.
When the invitation had been given to the celebration of the Lord's Supper, and while the communicants were taking their places at the long tables spread in the aisles, which formed a cross, another psalm was sung. During its singing I slipped unheeded from the church, and walked back and forth under the trees, my soul more moved than ever it had been before. That hour I gave my heart, and my life to Christ, making solemn vow that from henceforth I would take my place, as my heritage and baptism, gave me right—at God's Table; that I would no longer be one of those to scorn so mighty a sacrifice, to refuse so priceless a redemption. There, under the trees, I knelt and consecrated all my future to God's service.
The very day seemed set apart by this solemn resolve, and now I did not wish to greet my family before the congregation. So I got on my horse and rode homeward.
At the bars which led from the highway across my Uncle Thomas Mitchell's fields to his house, stood my Cousin Thomas, half leaning on the stile. His gaze was fixed upon some distant object, and though he answered my greeting, as I halted before him, there was neither interest nor curiosity in his listless manner.
"You do not know me, Thomas," I said.
"Can it be Donald McElroy?" and he was interested enough now, his face aglow with pleasure. "We had given you up for dead in Philadelphia prison, Donald," and almost before I was off my horse he had his arms about me, and was hugging me as if I had been his mother.
It did not take long to tell him so much of my story as was needful he should know at once, and then I began to put questions.
"Are all well at home? Tom?"