egation of listening trees. I qualified my answer.

"Never," I said, "to human beings."

Dr. Peck smiled again. "Well," he told me, "the door is open. Enter or
not, as you wish."

He left the house, but I remained to discuss his overwhelming
proposition with Miss Foot. A sudden sobering thought had come to me.

"But," I exclaimed, "I've never been converted. How can I preach to any
one?"

We both had the old-time idea of conversion, which now seems so
mistaken. We thought one had to struggle with sin and with the Lord
until at last the heart opened, doubts were dispersed, and the light
poured in. Miss Foot could only advise me to put the matter before the
Lord, to wrestle and to pray; and thereafter, for hours at a time, she
worked and prayed with me, alternately urging, pleading, instructing,
and sending up petitions in my behalf. Our last session was a dramatic
one, which took up the entire night. Long before it was over we were
both worn out; but toward morning, either from exhaustion of body or
exaltation of soul, I seemed to see the light, and it made me very
happy. With all my heart I wanted to preach, and I believed that now at
last I had my call. The following day we sent word to Dr. Peck that I
would preach the sermon at Ashton as he had asked, but we urged him to
say nothing of the matter for the present, and Miss Foot and I also
kept the secret locked in our breasts. I knew only too well what view
my family and my friends would take of such a step and of me. To them it
would mean nothing short of personal disgrace and a blotted page in the
Shaw record.

I had six weeks in which to prepare my sermon, and I gave it most of my
waking hours as well as those in which I should have been asleep. I took
for my text: "And as Moses lifted up the serpent in the wilderness, even
so must the Son of Man be lifted up; that whosoever believeth in Him
should not perish, but have eternal life."

It was not until three days before I preached the sermon that I found
courage to confide my purpose to my sister Mary, and if I had confessed
my intention to commit a capital crime she could not have been more
disturbed. We two had always been very close, and the death of Eleanor,
to whom we were both devoted, had drawn us even nearer to each other.
Now Mary's tears and prayers wrung my heart and shook my resolution.
But, after all, she was asking me to give up my whole future, to close
my ears to my call, and I felt that I cou