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that dear boy in my heart now. I thought then my opportunity had surely come, and I could lead him to Christ. But he was taken sick again. I could not keep him here. The doctor said he might live a number of years, but could not be cured. Naturally very ambitious and proud-spirited, he did not want to go back home. But the doctor said it was the best I could do, and I took him back to Massachusetts. I took him home from Chicago to Northfield, all the way preaching Christ to him. But he took no interest in my speech. Everything I said failed to influence him, although he seemed to love me very much. And for fourteen years I kept that dear boy on my heart. I just kept on praying for him. Year after year I went back to the old home just to spend a few days with him that I might win him to Christ. He knew I wanted him to be a Christian, but it seemed he would not comply. He took no interest in the Bible, no interest in Christianity. He would talk politics, he would talk everything else, but you could not get him to talk of Christ or Christianity. I went back home a year ago with a heart just burdened for the salvation of my family. My heart burned to draw them to Christ. I went to preaching in that town. In the last month, my heart going out to that dear boy, I asked all those present in the church willing to become Christians to rise, and he, my long-sought brother, rose for prayers. What a precious relief for my heart! He became an earnest Christian. He turned his face toward Heaven that very night. He became an active Christian. And when they soon after decided to have a Young Men's Christian Association for that town, the young men wanted a president, and they elected him for president. Oh, that was a blessed day for me, when my brother, converted to God, after twenty years' prayer, took charge of that little band. I heard him make his first speech, and that seemed the happiest day of my life. He was a young man of great talents, he was the star of the family, the most promising one of the family. No one of us could have done as much for Christ had he gone to him in his earliest manhood. And he went to work. He took a leading part in religious meetings. He went and talked with weak brothers and set them on their feet again. He searched for souls on both sides of the Connecticut River, in both sides of the valley. More conversions took place after I left than when I was there. Every Sunday afternoon he would go out into the country and take charge of meetings, and as I used to stand in the pulpit sometimes, and look down on that young brother in his zealous work, no one but God knows how I loved him and rejoiced with great joy. And when God took him he was in the midst of his work, bringing others to Christ. Oh, I want to tell you my thoughts after I left you suddenly.

The first thought as I went toward my home. Oh, how deep the sorrow! The dear boy was gone forever, and in the first moments grief will have its way. That text in Scripture, the expression that David used when he lost Jonathan, kept coming into my mind: "I am very much distressed for thee, my brother Jonathan; very pleasant hast thou been unto me; thy soul to me was wonderful." Yes, thy soul to me was wonderful. For these twenty years I always knew he was going to meet me at the depot. I always found him waiting for me there. I

never missed him. Sometimes I was three or four trains behind, but he was always watching and waiting for me. And that sadly beautiful hymn also kept coming into my mind: "We shall meet but we shall miss him, there will be one vacant chair." But over and above all these the voice from heaven at last made itself heard to my heart: "Thy brother shall rise again." The cloud was lifted, and for about five hundred miles on my way to my home that verse rung in my ears. It seemed to echo and re-echo throughout all the journey; "Thy brother shall rise again." Oh, the precious Bible! It never seemed to me so precious as it did that day. My call to mourning was the deepest I have ever known, for next, perhaps, to my wife, my two children, and my aged mother, I loved none so dearly as this youngest brother. But that precious promise gives the heart cause to rejoice even in the sorrow of death. And again in the fifteenth chapter of Corinthians what divine sustaining words I took to my soul.

"But some men will say, how are the dead raised up? and with what body do they come ?

"Thou fool, that which thou sowest is not quickened, except it die.

"And that which thou sowest, thou sowest not that body that shall be, but bare grain; it may chance of wheat, or of some other grain.

"But God giveth it a body as it hath pleased Him, and to every seed his own body.

"So also is the resurrection of the dead. It is sown in corruption; it is raised in incorruption.

"It is sown in dishonor; it is raised in glory. It is sown in weakness; it is raised in power."

Dishonor. Oh, as we laid him down in the cold grave, I thought as we laid him away of the worms that would come to his body, and of the dishonor. But with what power the word of God came to my soul then in these words, "It is raised in glory." We sowed it in weakness, but it shall be raised in power. It seemed there was victory even in that trying hour. It was sown in corruption, but it shall be raised incorruptible.

It was sown mortal, but it shall be raised immortal. It was sown a natural body, it shall be raised a spiritual body. And, as it had borne the image of the earthly, it shall also bear the image of the heavenly. I shall see that brother by and by; then shall he be glorified. Yes, my friends, I could even rejoice as I read these blessed assurances of Scripture. The word of God came to my soul as never before. Blessed Bible, how dark it would have been but for that blessed Book. But by its beams all darkness was driven away. It seemed I could even thank God for the triumphant death of my dear brother, and almost envied him. No, I would not have God call him back from heaven into this dark world. Yon happy home beyond the grave is far better. What joy to tell of good deeds done. A minister down home told me that he did not know, a short time back, of a solitary young man in his neighborhood who would offer prayer, but now a numerous and zealous band of praying Christians were the fruits of my brother's life. And that text came forcible to my mind: "Blessed are the dead that die in the Lord; even so saith the Spirit, and their works do follow them." There were these dear young Christian converts following him to his grave; his works did follow him. In the graveyard of the church that funeral day I saw 50 of these young men, converted mostly in the past year. I shouted even there by the grave, I could not help it. “Oh, death, where is thy sting? Oh grave, where is thy victory ?" And I seemed to hear a voice as from the bosom of the Son of God: "Because I live ye shall live also."

And on my way back from Northfield to Chicago this has been my thought: if you, my dear Christian friend, have a brother out of Christ, go bring him in. You will by and by have to stand by the open grave of some dear brother, and to be without Christ, how can you bear it? And so, my friends, let me urge upon you, first of all, to go and find your own brother. If you have a brother out of Christ go to him to-day, tell him how you love him, how you want him to be a Christian, how you are burdened and weighed down for his salvation. And then go to your sister, to your cousin, to your friend. Oh! do you each one of you write to some absent friend to-day, beseeching that Christ may be accepted just now! I thank God from the bottom of my heart that my dear brother took a stand for Christ, and went to work. I thank God that now his works do follow him. The young Christian men met immediately after he died; a hundred of them came together to choose some one to take his place. And how it rejoiced my heart that George Moody took the place of Samuel, and has set himself earnestly to the work. He said: "From now I will try to follow more faithfully after

Christ." And when we met on Wednesday night—it was Tuesday we laid him away-another brother was harnessed to the work in place of the dear buried one. Oh, dear friend, if souls weigh on our hearts, let us go and bring them to Jesus. Let us write to them beseeching letters if our lips cannot reach them. Let us not rest day or night. Let us this morning go out and bring our friends to Christ. Let us commence with our own families; let us find our brothers. If our brothers have yielded let us go to our friends. If they are strangers to Christ, oh, go bring them now while you may. Exhort by word of mouth; exhort by fervent and repeated letters. Begin at once your mission, lest it be too late forever, and praise God for the dear privilege of bringing others to Him.

"Yet there is room."-Luke xiv. 22.

YET there is room! the Lamb's bright hall of song,
With its fair glory, beckons thee along;
Room, room, still room! oh, enter, enter now!

Day is declining, and the sun is low:

The shadows lengthen, light makes haste to go:
Room, room, still room! oh, enter, enter now!
The bridal hall is filling for the feast:
Pass in, pass in, and be the Bridegroom's guest:
Room, room, still room! oh, enter, enter now!
It fills, it fills, that hall of jubilee !

Make haste, make haste; 'tis not too full for thee:
Room, room, still room! oh, enter, enter now!
Yet there is room! Still open stands the gate,
The gate of love; it is not yet too late :
Room, room, still room! oh, enter, enter now!
Pass in, pass in! That banquet is for thee;
That cup of everlasting love is free:
Room, room, still room! oh, enter, enter now!
All heaven is there, all joy! Go in, go in;
The angels beckon thee the prize to win:
Room, room, still room! oh, enter now!
Louder and sweeter, sounds the loving call;
Come lingerer, come; enter that festal hall:
Room, room, still room! oh, enter, enter now!

Ere night that gate may close, and seal thy doom:
Then the last, low, long cry:-"No room, no room!"
No room, no room :-oh, woful cry, "No room!"

Where Art Thou?

WANT to direct your attention to the third chapter of Genesis, part of the ninth verse: "Where art Thou?" You see I have got a very personal text this afternoon. All those ministers in this audience will bear me out in this statement that it is the hardest kind of work to get their congregations to apply this text to themselves. When they hear it one man passes it on to another, and away it goes, text and sermon. This afternoon I want you to understand that it means me, you, and every one of us-that it points to us; that it applies to us personally-that it ought to come home to every soul here-to these merchants, to these ministers, to these reporters, to these great hearted men, to these women, to these little boys and girls as a personal question. It was the first question God put to man after his fall, and in the 6,000 years that have rolled away all of Adam's children have heard it. It has come to them all. In the silent watches of the night, in the busy hours of the day, it has come upon us many a time-the question "Where am I, whither am I going?" and I want you to look at it now as a personal question. So let us be solemn for a few minutes while we try to answer it. Some men look with great anxiety as to how they appear in the sight of their fellow men. It is of very little account what the world thinks of us. The world is not worth heeding; public opinion is of very little account. We should not pay any attention to its opinion. "Where art thou going?" is the question that ought to trouble-"what is to be your hereafter ?" May the question strike home to us, and may a heart-searching take place in us, and the Holy Spirit search us, so that we may know before we sleep to-night where we are now in sight of God, and where we are going in eternity. I remember when preaching in New York City, at the Hippodrome, a man coming up to me and telling me a story that thrilled my soul. One night, he said, he had been gambling; had gambled all the money away he had. When he went home to the hotel that night, he did not sleep much-half drunk, and with a sort of remorse for what he had done. The next morning happened to be Sunday. He got up, felt bad, couldn't eat anything, didn't touch his breakfast, was miserable, and thought about putting an end to his existence. That afternoon he took a walk up Broadway, and when he came to the Hippodrome he saw great crowds going in and thought of entering too. But a policeman

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