Part 39 (2/2)
And now was to begin a new life. Friendless, debased, repulsive in appearance, everything about him denoting the abandoned drunkard, this man started forth to get honest bread. Where should he go? What could he do? Who would give employment to an object like him? The odds were fearfully against him--no, not that, either. In outward respects, fearful enough were the odds, but on the other side agencies invisible to mortal sight were organizing for his safety. In to his purpose to lead a new life and help a poor homeless child G.o.d's strength was flowing. Angels were drawing near to a miserable wreck of humanity with hands outstretched to save. All heaven was coming to the rescue.
He was shuffling along in the direction of a market-house, hoping to earn a little by carrying home baskets, when he came face to face with an old friend of his better days, a man with whom he had once held close business relations.
”Mr. Hall!” exclaimed this man in a tone of sorrowful surprise, stopping and looking at him with an expression of deepest pity on his countenance. ”This is dreadful!”
”You may well say that, Mr. Graham. It dreadful enough. No one knows that better than I do,” was answered, with a bitterness that his old friend felt to be genuine.
”Why, then, lead this terrible life a day longer?” asked the friend.
”I shall not lead it a day longer if G.o.d will help me,” was replied, with a genuineness of purpose that was felt by Mr. Graham.
”Give me your hand on that, Andrew Hall,” he exclaimed. Two hands closed in a tight grip.
”Where are you going now?” inquired the friend.
”I'm in search of something to do--something that will give me honest bread. Look at my hand.”
He held it up.
”It shakes, you see. I have not tasted liquor this morning. I could have bought it, but I did not.”
”Why?”
”I said, 'G.o.d being my helper, I will be a man again,' and I am trying.”
”Andrew Hall,” said his old friend, solemnly, as he laid his hand on his shoulder, ”if you are really in earnest--if you do mean, in the help of G.o.d, to try--all will be well. But in his help alone is there any hope.
Have you seen Mr. Paulding?”
”No.”
”Why not?”
”He has no faith in me. I have deceived him too often.”
”What ground of faith is there now?” asked Mr. Graham.
”This,” was the firm but hastily spoken answer. ”Last night as I sat in the gloom of my dreary hovel, feeling so wretched that I wished I could die, a little child came in--a poor, motherless, homeless wanderer, almost a baby--and crept down to my heart, and he is lying there still, Mr. Graham, soft, and warm and precious, a sweet burden to bear. I bought him a supper and a breakfast of bread and milk with the money, I had saved for drink, and now, both for his sake and mine, I am out seeking for work. I have locked him in, so that no one can harm or carry him away while I earn enough to buy him his dinner, and maybe something better to wear, poor little homeless thing!”
There was a genuine earnestness and pathos about the man that could not be mistaken.
”I think,” said Mr. Graham, his voice not quite steady, ”that G.o.d brought us together this morning. I know Mr. Paulding. Let us go first to the mission, and have some talk with him. You must have a bath and better, and cleaner clothes before you are in a condition to get employment.”
The bath and a suit of partly-worn but good clean clothes were supplied at the mission house.
”Now come with me, and I will find you something to do,” said the old friend.
But Andrew Hall stood hesitating.
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