"My Jesus, I love Thee, I know Thou art mine, For Thee all the follies of sin I resign, My gracious Redeemer, my Saviour art Thou, If ever I loved Thee, my Jesus, 'tis now." Could I have caught the spirit of the picture and shown that face in the sunlight with the soul's door thrown open, with the convict garb amid the setting of gloomy shadows, and had I had the power to make it live on canvas I would have hung it where the passing world could read its story. No need to write beneath it! Could they have seen it as I saw it, they would have turned away to say, "So there _is_ hope for the convict." Hope! Yes, indeed! That is what I am reading day by day in the life experiences of our "boys" in prison. That is the message that is being sent back in louder, more certain tones from the lives of thousands who have stood the test of liberty. In a work like ours, the happy, hopeful side is what gives us courage to face the hard, stern difficulties that cannot be slighted or forgotten, but must from their very urgency be faced and combated. It is the flesh and blood facts, not the theories, that will prove to the world the redeemability of those who have gone far astray, and it is this very evidence that I wish to bring forward. One hot summer day in 1896, shortly after the opening of our work in prison, and before Hope Hall was in existence, a caller came to my office who bore in face and manner the most unmistakable brand of State Prison. My secretary was the first to greet him, but she almost immediately came to my private office, and in her hands she carried a sand bag, a revolver and a handful of cartridges. "He has come to give you these," she said, and so I called him in at once to tell me his story. He was a tall, stoop-shouldered fellow, whose whole figure spoke of dejection and a broken spirit. His face had the distrustful, hunted look that speaks of years of experience with every man's hand against one. After I had welcomed him and tried to make him feel how truly glad I was that he had turned to us in his extremity, I drew him on to talk of himself. The feverishness of the hand, that had clasped mine, the unnatural brightness of the sunken eyes, and the pain with which his face was drawn made his tale all the more pathetic. When our work was opened in Sing Sing, he had refused to leave his cell to attend the service. He was an old-time prisoner, having been in prison several times and he had reached the point where his heart was hardened against everything. He had absolutely given up faith in religion. Though he had never heard us speak, he received something of the message from the other men. Sitting alone in his cell during the last few weeks of his incarceration, he thought seriously over the utter failure of his life. He was thoroughly tired of prison, there was no doubt of that, but could there be any other life for him? Something that I had said concerning my faith and hope for the "old-timer" came