manhood, that we are compelled to choose,
willing or unwilling. Saint and sinner, believer and infidel, are alike
under this compulsion in matters moral--and in all matters. We speak of
the stern pressure which demands that men shall make a living; but its
dread feature is herein, that our living is a succession of pregnant
choices on which our deepest livelihood depends--and these choices melt
into destiny, involving the infinite itself.

My people, I ruminated, could help me to a decision if they only would.
But I knew how non-committal they would be; for they, and all their
kind, are inclined to assume no responsibility of another's soul, and to
surrender no fragment of their own.

New York was reached at last, the waves still tossing heavily. When I
alighted from the train at New Jedboro, the breath of winter greeted me.

One of my parishioners, an Aberdonian born, was on the lookout. He shook
hands, but said nothing of welcome home. Yet his hand was warm, and its
grip had a voice that told me more than even sweet Southern lips could
say. For its voice was bass--which is God's.

"Issie's wantin' ye," he said calmly. "She's far gone an' she's been
askin' for ye."

The dawn as yet had hardly come, and seating myself upon the box, I told
the cabman to drive quickly to Issie's home. As we passed through the
still unstirring town, he said:

"He'll be sittin' up with him," pointing to a dimly-lighted window.

"Who'll be sitting up?" I said.

"Oh, I forgot. You won't have heard. That is Mr. Strachan's room. At
least I think that is the name. I only came here myself to work ten days
ago. A poor homeless woman landed here last week from Ireland. One of
those immigration agent devils over there took her last penny and sent
her over to Canada, to starve for all he cared. She showed smallpox
after she landed here and her little lad was with her. He took it too.
Well, she died--but before she died she told her story. The old story,
you know--had bad luck, you see, and the fellow skipped out and left
her. The woman gets the worst of it every time, don't she?"

"She died!" I exclaimed. "And the little one? Where is the boy you spoke
of?"

"That's him; that's what the light's burnin' for. Angus Strachan, so
they say, paid all the funeral expenses, and they wanted to send the kid
away somewheres--some hospital for them catchin' diseases. But Strachan
acted queer about it. He wouldn't let them touch it. And he took it to