d of
intemperance and had been suspended from communion, reappearing
with a face that shone with soap and sanctification, and saying
to me, 'Oh! blessed Child, you're wonderin' to zee old Pewings
here again, but He have rolled away my mountain!' For once, I was
absolutely at a loss, but she meant that the Lord had removed the
load of her sins, and restored her to a state of grace.

It was in consequence of these backslidings, which had become
alarmingly frequent, that early in 1860 my Father determined on
proclaiming a solemn fast. He delivered one Sunday what seemed to
me an awe-inspiring address, calling upon us all closely to
examine our consciences, and reminding us of the appalling fate
of the church of Laodicea. He said that it was not enough to have
made a satisfactory confession of faith, nor even to have sealed
that confession in baptism, if we did not live up to our
protestations. Salvation, he told us, must indeed precede
holiness of life, yet both are essential. It was a dark and rainy
winter morning when he made this terrible address, which
frightened the congregation extremely. When the marrow was
congealed within our bones, and when the bowed heads before him,
and the faintly audible sobs of the women in the background, told
him that his lesson had gone home, he pronounced the keeping of a
day in the following week as a fast of contrition. 'Those of you
who have to pursue your daily occupations will pursue them, but
sustained only by the bread of affliction and by the water of
affliction.'

His influence over these gentle peasant people was certainly
remarkable, for no effort was made to resist his exhortation. It
was his customary plan to stay a little while, after the morning
meeting was over, and in a very affable fashion to shake hands
with the Saints. But on this occasion he stalked forth without a
word, holding my hand tight until we had swept out into the
street.

How the rest of the congregation kept this fast I do not know.
But it was a dreadful day for us. I was awakened in the pitchy
night to go off with my Father to the Room, where a scanty
gathering held a penitential prayer-meeting. We came home, as
dawn was breaking, and in process of time sat down to breakfast,
which consisted--at that dismal hour--of slices of dry bread and
a tumbler of cold water each. During the morning, I was not
allowed to paint, or write, or withdraw to my study in the box-
room. We sat, in a state of depressi