. . to have it out quite plainly? . . ."
His father, still very gently and hesitating as though he found it
difficult to catch the words that he wished (his voice had still the
remoteness of some one speaking, who was far from them both), said:
"You'll think it odd, Martin, when you know how often I have to
preach and speak in public, that I should find it hard to talk--but
I never, with any man alone, could find words easily. I know so
little. It is God's punishment for some selfish nervousness and
shyness in me, that even now when I am an old man I cannot speak as
one man to another. There was once, I remember, a young man who had
heard me preach and was moved by my words and begged to see me in
private. He came one evening; he was tempted to commit a terrible
sin. He depended upon me to save him and I could say nothing. I
struggled, I prayed, but it was incredible to me that any man could
be tempted to such a thing. I spoke only conventional words that
meant nothing. He went away from me, and his lost soul is now upon
me and will always be . . . but, Martin, what I would say beyond
everything is--do not let us separate.
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