“I will not be a hypocrite,” Winifred said to herself.  “I will not go through a theatrical display, however refined and solemn, and call it worship.  I am no true worshiper.”

Then she burst into fresh tears, in which mingled grief that she was not a worshiper, and sorrow that she must leave an occupation and associations so dear.  It seemed like taking out a good part of her life, for Winifred was young, and things loved were ardently loved.

There was one who contested the ground with her in her room that night, and told her she was no worse than others, that they were as thoughtless and insincere as she; that her course and theirs passed under the common sanction of churches everywhere, and that there was no reason why she should be singular amongst all others.  Why should she be disturbed from the commonly accepted course by a single sermon preached by a stranger, and he a young man?  Doctor Schoolman had never said such things.  She might at least wait and talk it over with him or some wise person.  He might be able to show her that God did not really care whether people quite meant what they said in singing, and that it was a meritorious thing, as she had always thought, to sing about Him to other people and to sing well.  It might do people good.  Some people had actually wept sometimes!

The last thought was very striking, for Winifred did not know well the Word which is able to discriminate between soul and spirit, and she mistook emotion for some sign of spirituality.  These arguments pressed hard, and had in their favor the natural leaning of the heart that longed to go on with the loved employment.  But there was another longing too, and it was to be honest.  And underneath all was the true beginning of wisdom—­the fear of God.

“The minister told the truth,” she said.  “And if everybody else goes on with the farce I will do as he said to father at dinner:  ’refuse to add one unit to the aggregation of untrue worshipers.’  I’ll join Hubert outside of it all before I will go on!”

Then she wept afresh, for the vision of isolation “outside of it all” was too painful.  The presence of God had grown awesome and the light of His eyes intolerable, but outside was darkness unbearable.  She flung herself down beside the bed where many a time she had “said prayers” at night, and sobbed: 

“O God, I am not a true worshiper, but I wish I were!  I have drawn nigh to Thee with my lips while my heart was far from Thee.  I have been a lie.  Oh, make me true! make me true!”

After this outburst of prayer she was calmer, but remained silently upon her knees by the bedside.  Gradually there came to her memory the substance of other words the minister had said;

“Into the presence and unto the very heart of God there is a blood-bought way opened by our blessed Christ for the most wicked one who wishes to take it.”

“Is there a way for me,” she prayed, “a way to come to Thee just as I am?” And the sound of her own words brought back the memory of the old song, familiar since her childhood: