"Yes, my dear St. Elmo, so surely as God reigns above us, He will refashion it, and make the light of His pardoning love and the refreshing dew of his grace fall upon it! And the waste places shall bloom as Sharon, and the purpling vineyards shame Engedi, and the lilies of peace shall lift up their stately heads, and the 'voice of the turtle shall be heard in the land!' Have faith, grapple yourself by prayer to the feet of God, and he will gird, and lift up, and guide you." Mr. Murray shook his head mournfully, and the moonlight shining on his face showed it colorless, haggard, hopeless. The pastor rose, put on his hat, and took St. Elmo's arm. "Come home with me. This spot is fraught with painful associations that open afresh all your wounds." They walked on together until they reached the parsonage gate, and as the minister raised the latch, his companion gently disengaged the arm clasped to the old man's side. "Not to-night. After a few days I will try to come." "St. Elmo, to-morrow is Sunday, and--" He paused, and did not speak the request that looked out from his eyes. It cost Mr. Murray a severe struggle, and he did not answer immediately. When he spoke his voice was unsteady. "Yes, I know what you wish. Once I swore I would tear the church down, scatter its dust to the winds, leave not a stone to mark the site! But I will come and hear you preach for the first time since that sunny Sabbath, twenty years dead, when your text was, 'Cast thy bread upon the waters; for thou shalt find it after many days.' Sodden, and bitter, and worthless from the long tossing in the great deep of sin, it drifts back at last to your feet; and instead of stooping tenderly to gather up the useless fragments, I wonder that you do not spurn the stranded ruin from you. Yes, I will come." "Thank God! Oh! what a weight you have lifted from my heart! St. Elmo, my son!" There was a long, lingering clasp of hands, and the pastor went into his home with tears of joy on his furrowed face, while his smiling lips whispered to his grateful soul: "In the morning sow thy seed, and in the evening withhold not thy hand; for thou knowest not whether shall prosper, either this or that, or whether they both shall be alike good." Mr. Murray watched the stooping form until it disappeared, and then went slowly back to the silent burying ground, and sat down on the steps of the church. Hour after hour passed and still he sat there, almost as motionless as one of the monuments, while his eyes dwelt as if spellbound, on the dark, dull stain where Annie Hammond had rested, in days long, long past; and Remorse, more powerful than Erictho, evoked from the charnel house the sweet girlish features and fairy figure of the early dead. His pale face was propped on his hand, and there in the silent watches of the moon-lighted midnight, he held communion with God and his own darkened spirit.