Abner was already on his knees, with a thanksgiving of his own to offer. He had prayed too much and too earnestly, both in secret and before his fellow-men, to lack words now in this hour of intense gratitude and thanksgiving. In rugged yet not ill-chosen words he lifted up his voice and gave thanks to God for His great and unspeakable mercies in giving back this one life from the destruction that had come upon all besides; and in permitting the very man whose sin had brought about this fearful thing to be His instrument for the salvation of the life of his friend. He pleaded for mercy for the sinner with an impassioned eloquence which bespoke a spirit deeply moved. He brought before the Lord the sins and shortcomings of this erring man, now stretched on a bed of sickness, and besought that the cleansing blood of Christ might wash them all away. He pleaded for Saul as he never could have pleaded for himself. He brought together all those eternal promises of mercy which are to the sinner as the anchor and stay of the soul in the deep and bitter waters of remorse. He pleaded with his Redeemer for the soul of his grandson with a fervour only inspired by a love and a faith too deep to be daunted by any considerations as to the weight of iniquity to be pardoned, or the lack of faith in the one thus prayed for. And Saul, lying helpless and tempest-tossed, listened to this pleading, and found his tears bursting forth again. He had seen before all the black and crushing iniquity of his own past record, but now was brought before his eyes a picture of the infinite and ineffable love of a dying Saviour--the Lord of Glory crucified for _him_--bearing _his_ sins upon the Cross of shame--stretching out His wounded hands and bidding _him_ come to that Cross and lay down his burden there. It was too much for Saul, softened as he was by the sense that God had already answered his prayer even in the midst of his sin and wickedness, and had given him the one petition, the only one he ever remembered to have offered. The whole conception of such divine mercy was too much--it broke down all his pride and reserve and sullen defiance--it broke his heart and made it as the heart of a little child. His tears gushed forth. He clasped his hands, and lifted them in supplication to his Saviour. He could not have found words for his own guilt, but he could follow the earnest words of the grandfather, whose simple piety he had hitherto held in a species of lofty contempt. And in that still evening hour, with the dying day about them, and the shadow of death hovering as it were in the very air above them (for Saul was dying, although he knew it not yet; and Abner knew that his hours were numbered, though he might linger for a day or two yet), the erring soul turned in penitence and love to the Saviour in Whose death lay the only hope of pardon, and in Whose resurrection-life the only hope of that life immortal beyond the