r. All through the
solemnities of the sermon, that seemed written for his sake, and to
point right at him, he had never moved his keen, steady eyes away from
the preacher's face. The text of that sermon he was not likely to
forget. He had looked it up, and read it, with its connections, the
moment he reached the privacy of his library.

"The harvest is past, the summer is ended, and we are not saved." That
was the text. Judge Erskine said it over and over to his own soul. It
was true; it fitted his condition as precisely as though it had been
written for him. The harvest that would tell for eternity had been
reaped all around him. He had looked, and listened, and resolved; and
still he stood outside, ungarnered.

Moreover, one portion of the solemn sermon fitted him, also. When Dr.
Dennis spoke of those who had let this season pass, unhelped, because
they had an inner life that would not bear the gaze of the public,
because they were not willing to drag out their past and cast it away
from them, Judge Erskine had started and fixed a stern glance on the
preacher.

Did he know his secret, that had been hidden away with such persistent
care? What scoundrel could have enlightened him? This, only for a
moment; then he settled back and realized his folly. Dr. Dennis knew
nothing of himself or his past. Then came that other awfully solemn
thought--there was One who did? Could it be that his voice had
instructed the pastor what special point to make in that sermon, with
such emphasis and power? Was the keen eye of the Eternal God pointing
his finger, now, at him, and saying; "Thou art the man?"

He _knew_ all this was true; he knew that the work of the past month had
greatly moved him; he knew on the evening when the text had been,
"Almost thou persuadest _me_ to be a Christian," that he had felt
himself _almost_ persuaded; he knew then, as he did now, that but one
thing stood in the way of his entire persuasion.

As he walked up and down his library on this evening, he felt fully
persuaded in his own mind that the time had arrived when he was being
called on persistently for a decision. More than that, he felt that the
decision was to be not only for time, but for eternity; that he _must_
settle the question of his future then and there. He had locked the door
after him, as he came into the library, with a sort of grim
determination to settle the question before he stepped into the outside
world again. How would it be se