"Have you asked Christ to forgive you?"
"Asked Him?" she sobbed, "I've been crying day and night for weeks; but
I'm only getting further away all the time."
"Does your son, or Mr. Lathrop know?"
"I reckon they don't. I was ashamed for any one to know; but I couldn't
help telling you."
"I think it is because you are ashamed that Christ don't bless you."
"I've felt I ought to get up and tell them in meeting what a sinner I've
been; but I've always prided myself on being as good as them that's made
a perfession, and they all know what a hard, proud wretch I am. I expect
they'd say I was a hypocrite."
"I think if you confessed to your church what you have just told me, and
asked them to pray for you, God would make you His child. It seems to me
any petition Mr. Lathrop and Mr. Bowen would dare to present would be
received and granted."
"It's hard on flesh and blood," she moaned.
I saw she was in deep distress and could not understand why she was
unwilling to make the confession that might bring peace.
"I wish I'd tended to this when I was young and my heart was easier made
new. It's next to impossible to make a crooked old tree turn and grow
straight."
"With God nothing is impossible," I whispered encouragingly.
"Yes, the minister said that last night, and looked straight at me. Maybe
he saw trouble in my face, and wanted to help me in spite of myself."
She grew calmer at last. "Now I won't worry you any longer, and I believe
I feel better for telling you.
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