All one's care and
thought and effort seem wasted, You lift them up to-day, and they
fall to-morrow. Good resolutions, solemn promises, written pledges,
go for nothing. They seem to have fallen below the sphere in which
God's saving power operates."
"No, no, no, Mr. Elliott. I cannot, I will not, believe it," was the
strongly-uttered reply of Mrs. Birtwell. "I do not believe that any
man can fall below this potent sphere."
A deep, sigh came from the clergyman's lips, a dreary expression
crept into his face. There was a heavy weight upon his heart, and he
felt weak and depressed.
"Something must be done." There was the impulse of a strong resolve
in Mrs. Birtwell's tones.
"God works by human agencies. If we hold back and let our hands lie
idle, he cannot make us his instruments. If we say that this poor
fallen fellow-creature cannot be lifted out of his degradation and
turn away that he may perish, God is powerless to help him through
us. Oh, sir, I cannot do this and be conscience clear. I helped him
to fall, and, God giving me strength, I will help him to rise
again."
Her closing sentence fell with rebuking force upon the clergyman. He
too was oppressed by a heavy weight of responsibility. If the sin of
this man's fall was upon the garments of Mrs. Birtwell, his were not
stainless. Their condemnation was equal, their duty one.
"Ah!" he said, in tones of deep solicitude, "if we but knew how to
reach and influence him!"
"We can do nothing if we stand afar off, Mr.
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