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ich all joined he proceeded to give me one of the classes, while he began to question the others. It was a novel group, the women in black skirts, with square boddices, surmounted by white kerchiefs, with long flowing sleeves of white. But the head had the strangest appearance. The more elderly women wore a black cap, from the edge of which depended a trimming rising perpendicularly from the cap from four to eight inches and gave to the head the appearance of wings. Strange as it at first seemed, I soon forgot all but their eager, animated attention. The theme was the love of God in giving his only Son to be the propitiation for our sins. Very evidently, it was no stranger of whom we were speaking. Not satisfied with a mere bearing of his name, they knew and loved him. His divine arm had been reached down to them. Charmed with his sweet countenance, and won by his gentle, loving words, "Come unto me," they came with the trust and confidence of little children, acknowledging their sin, but taking him at his word, "I, even I am he that blotteth out thy transgressions, for my own sake, and will not remember thy sins." It was sweet to talk of him, this Saviour, who had done so much for them; and before I was aware the tears were running down my own cheeks, and my words were broken and fragmentary. In the meantime other worshippers came in. The hour for this kind of instruction was over. The pastor availed himself of a moment's respite, and the next was seen ascending the pulpit stairs. Maude was seated among the singers, and the morning services commenced. I had never heard my friend deliver a formal discourse, but I knew it mattered little to him whether his message was given to few or many--love for Christ, and earnestness to save souls was the all-absorbing passion of his heart. It was only a continuation of what he had been saying, the sweetly touching story of Christ's love told simply, and still with the earnest, truthful spirit of one who knew by blessed experience the reality of what he was saying. Standing in his place and holding up the cross, for the moment it seemed that we could see Him, the Divine Son, hanging, bleeding, dying that sinners like us might be redeemed, saved, reinstated. What love! What tenderness! Is it any wonder that we wept? Not a dry eye was in the house. Those hardy peasants, with little intellectual culture, had hearts to love, hearts that could understand and appreciate in some feeble
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