The great truth flashed upon his mind, and flooded it with light.  He bent his head and wept.  We knelt and prayed together, and when we rose from our knees he said softly, as the tears stole, down his face: 

“It is all right now—­I see it clearly; I see it clearly!”

We quietly clasped hands, and sat in silent sympathy.  There was no need for any words from me; God had spoken, and that was enough.  Our hearts were singing together the song without words.

“You have found peace at the cross—­let nothing disturb it,” I said, as he pressed my hand at the door as we left.

It never was disturbed.  The days that had dragged so wearily and anxiously during the long, long months, were now full of brightness.  A subdued joy shone in his face, and his voice was low and tender as he spoke of the blessed change that had passed upon him.  The Book whose words had been light and life to him was often in his hand, or lay open on the little table in his room.  He never lost his hold upon the great truth he had grasped, nor abated in the fullness of his joy.  I was with him the night he died.  He knew the end was at hand, and the thought filled him with solemn joy.  His eyes kindled, and his wasted features fairly blazed with rapture as he said, holding my hand with both of his: 

“I am glad it will all soon, be over.  My peace has been unbroken since that morning when God sent you to me.  I feel a strange, solemn joy a the thought that I shall soon know all.”

Before daybreak the great mystery was disclosed to him, and as he lay in his coffin next day, the smile that lingered on his lips suggested the thought that he had caught a hint of the secret while yet in the body.

Among the casual hearers that now and then dropped in to hear a sermon in Sonora, in the early days of my ministry there, was a man who interested me particularly.  He was at that time editing one of the papers of the town, which sparkled with the flashes of his versatile genius.  He was a true Bohemian, who had seen many countries, and knew life in almost all its phases.  He had written a book of adventure which found many readers and admirers.  An avowed skeptic, he was yet respectful in his allusions to sacred things, and I am sure his editorial notices of the pulpit efforts of a certain young preacher who had much to learn were more than just.  He was a brilliant talker, with a vein of enthusiasm that was very delightful.  His spirit was generous and frank, and I never heard from his lips an unkind word concerning any human being.  Even his partisan editorials were free from the least tinge of asperity—­and this is a supreme test of a sweet and courteous nature.  In our talks he studiously evaded the one subject most interesting to me.  With gentle and delicate skill he parried all my attempts to introduce the subject of religion in our conversations.

“I can’t agree with you on that subject, and we will let it pass” he would say, with a smile, and then he would start some other topic, and rattle on delightfully in his easy, rapid way.