This was the final
crisis in his life. Shut out from the world, and shut in with his own
thoughts and with God, he reviewed his life and the argument that had so
long been going on in his mind. He was now quiet enough to hear
distinctly the Still Small Voice whose tones he could only half discern
amid the clamors of the world when he was a busy actor on its stage.
Nature spoke to him among the hills, and her voice is God's. The great
primal instincts of the soul, repressed in the crowd or driven into the
background by the mob of petty cares and wants, now had free play in the
nature of this man whose soul had so long cried out of the depths for
the living God. He prayed the simple prayer of trust at which the gate
flies open for the believing soul to enter into the peace of God. He was
born into the new life. The flower that had put forth its abortive buds
for so many seasons, burst into full bloom at last. With the mighty joy
in his heart, and the light of the immortal hope beaming upon him, he
passed into the World of Certainties.
A Virginian in California.
"Hard at it, are you, uncle?"
"No, sah--I's workin' by de day, an' I an't a-hurtin' myself."
This answer was given with a jolly laugh as the old man leaned on his
pick and looked at me.
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