No excuse now for going down stairs, and the wretched boy crept back to his room; _utterly_ wretched he felt, and he had no human friend to help him, no human heart to comfort him. He wrapped a quilt about him and sat down on the edge of his bed to calculate how long his bit of candle would probably burn, and what he _should_ do when he was left once more in that awful darkness. On his table lay a half-burnt lamp lighter. He mechanically untwisted it, and twisted it up again, busy still with that fearful sentence: "The eyes of the Lord are in _every_ place." The lighter was made of a bit of printed paper, and Tode could read. The letters caught his eye, and he bent forward to decipher them; and of all precious words that can be found in our language, came these home to that troubled youth: "Look unto me and be ye saved, all--" Just there the paper was burned. No matter, be ye _saved_, that was what he wanted. He felt in his inmost soul that he needed to be saved, from himself, and from some dreadful evil that seemed near at hand. Now how to do it? The smoke-edged bit of paper said, "Look unto me." Who was that blessed _Me_, and where was he, and how could Tode look to him? Quick as lightning the boy's memory went back to that evening in the chapel, and the wonderful story of one Jesus, and the gray-haired man in the corner, who stood up and shut his eyes, and spoke to Jesus just as if he had been in the room. Perhaps, oh, _perhaps_, the All-seeing Eye belonged to him? No, that could not be, for that card said, "The eyes of the Lord," and Tode knew that meant God, but you see he knew nothing about that blessed Trinity, the three in One. Then he remembered his question to Dora: "Who is Jesus, anyhow?" and her answer: "Why, he is God." What if it should in some strange way all mean God? Couldn't he try? Suppose he should stand up in the corner like that old man, and shut his eyes and speak to Jesus? What harm could it do? A great resolution came over him to try it at once. He went over to the corner at the foot of his bed with the first touch of reverence in his face that perhaps it had ever felt. He closed his eyes and said aloud: "O Jesus, save me." Over and over again were the words repeated, solemnly and slowly, and in wonderful earnestness: "O Jesus, save me." Gradually something of the terror died out of his tones, and there came instead a yearning, longing sound to his voice, while again and yet again came the simple words: "O Jesus, save me."