A week has passed since Mr. Hume made his frank confession. He went home no lighter of heart than before, yet he felt in some respects different, for he had attempted to do what was right in the sight of God. But he did not feel the joy of sins forgiven. He had not looked upon Christ as a Saviour for himself. He felt that God had distinctly set life and death before him. His doubts were gone; the spiritual world was a reality; Christ stood at his right hand and Satan at his left; he stood where the path of destiny divided, the one path leading up to heavenly seats with Christ, the other leading down to darkness and despair. A voice seemed to be whispering in his ears, "This is the last call." He went to his chamber determined, if possible, to settle the question of life or death before he left the place and before he slept. He took his Bible, and on his knees turned and read the Psalms at random. But the cloud of darkness only gathered deeper. The words of David's penitential Psalm caught his eye: "Against thee, thee only, have I sinned, and done this evil in thy sight." He felt that these words of David were true in his case also. All his long impenitence and bold unbelief had been against God. By night and by day, for many a long year, before the sleepless eye of God, he had lifted up his hand, almost defying the holy One, yet the lightning of God had not smitten him. He wondered as much at the long-suffering of God as at his own dreadful daring of the divine wrath. He had been taught better things; he was trained to know the Scriptures and to go reverently to the house of God, but he had turned from Christ and hope. He read on: "Deliver me from blood-guiltiness, O God, thou God of my salvation." He felt that this belonged to himself more than to David. David had shed the blood of natural life, but he had destroyed the souls of men. He had stood chief among unbelievers. He had led young men into infidelity. He had seen them drink in his unbelief like water, throw off all restraint, and rush headlong to ruin. He had wrought a work of evil which he could never undo, and for which he could make no atonement. What was a confession in comparison with the ruin he had caused? What could his confession do for the young men already, perhaps, among the lost through his influence? Could his late repentance call them back to life and hope? Would God forgive and raise to heavenly heights a man who had dragged others down to hell? Would it be possible that Christ should fill his soul with blessedness while his victims were drinking the wine of the wrath of God? A deep horror seized him. The darkness of eternal death seemed to enfold him. Must he, then, after having caught a glimpse of life and joy, be cut off from hope and be driven from God for ever? This would be just, but he felt that he could not endure it. "O thou great and holy God," he prayed, "I will ascribe righteousness to thee though thy righteous wrath shall