"He gwine ter preach nex' Sat'day on ''Pentance,'" he said to Sheba, with a chuckle. "Dat's his big lecture ev'ybody want to hear. De hall shore to be pack full. What I'm a-hopin' is dat it'll be pack full er Senators an' members er Congrest, an' he'll set some of 'em a-'pentin', dey ain't 'tend to dere business an' git people's claims through. Ef I know'd de gen'leman, I'd ax him to menshun dat special an' pertickler." As they sat at supper, Sheba repeated his stories and comments. All the comments were worthy of repetition, and most of the anecdotes were suggestively interesting, illustrating, as they did, the power of a single man over many. "I should like to go and hear him myself," she said. "Uncle Tom, have you anything to repent? Rupert, have you? Uncle Tom, you have not forgotten the Senator. You look at me as if you were thinking of something that was not happy." "The Senator was not particularly happy," remarked Tom. "He had just had an interview with Stamps, and he certainly was not happy at the sight of me. He thought he had another on his hands. He's in better spirits by this time." Sheba got up and went to his side of the table. She put her arms round his neck and pressed her cheek against his. "Forget about him," she said. "I am not remembering him particularly," said Tom, the shade passing from his eyes; "I am remembering you--as you were nineteen years ago." "Nineteen years ago!" said Sheba. "I was a baby!" "Yes," answered Tom, folding a big arm round her, and speaking slowly. "I saw a man to-day who reminded me of the day you were born. Are you glad you were born, Sheba? that's what I want to be sure of." The two pairs of young eyes met glowing. Tom knew they had met, by the warmth of the soft cheek touching him. "Yes, I am glad--I am glad--I am glad!" with grateful sweetness. "And I--and I," cried Rupert. He sprung up and held out an impetuous boyish hand to Tom. "You know how glad, Uncle Tom--look at her--look at me--see how glad we both are; and it is you--you who have made it so." "It's a pretty big thing," said Tom, "that two people should be glad they are alive." And he grasped the ardent hand as affectionately as it was offered. CHAPTER XXXII The Reverend John Baird and his friend the Reverend Lucien Latimer were lodged in a quiet house in a quiet street. The lecturing tour had been fatiguing, and Baird was glad of such repose as he could secure. In truth, the excitement and strain of his work, the journeying from place to place, the hospitalities from which he could not escape, had worn upon him. He had grown thinner, and often did not sleep well at night. He used to find himself lying awake repeating to himself mechanically words from his own lecture. "Repentance is too late," his voice would whisper to the darkness. "Repentance cannot undo."