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and there's an end on't.
Yes, there would be an end on't, if she could feel sure that he,
too, was not deluded.
She turned over the pages of the book, and toward the end found a
copy of the inscription on Livingstone's tomb. Her eye fell on the
words: And other sheep I have which are not of this fold; them
also I must bring, and they shall hear My voice.
Somehow the mention of the lost sheep brought to her mind the
little lost child on the beach at Codrington Dolly, who had putted
on her own hat, who had wanted to be independent and to dig by
herself. She had run away from home, and could not find the way
back. What a steep climb they had had up the beach how the little
thing's tiny feet had slipped and stumbled over the stones, and
just when they were most perplexed, the father had found them.
Exactly how it all came to her Erica never knew, nor could she ever
put into words the story of the next few moments. When God's
great sunrise finds us out we have need of something higher than
human speech there ARE no words for it. At the utmost she could
only say that it was like coming out of the twilight, that it
seemed as if she were immersed in a great wave of all pervading
light.
All in a moment the Christ who had been to her merely a noble
character of ancient history seemed to become to her the most real
and living of all living realities. Even her own existence seemed
to fade into a vague and misty shadow in comparison with the
intensity of this new consciousness this conviction of His being
which surrounded her which she knew, indeed, to be way, and truth,
and life. They shall hear My voice. In the silence of waiting,
in the faithfulness of honest searching, Erica for the first time
in her life heard it. Yes, she had been right truth was
selfrevealing. A few minutes ago those words had been to her an
unfulfilled, a vain promise the speaker, broadhearted and loving
as he was, had doubtless been deluded. But now the voice spoke to
her, called her by name, told her what she wanted.
Dolly, became to her a parable of life. She had been like that
little child; for years and years she had been toiling up over
rough stones and slippery pebbles, but at last she had heard the
voice. Was this the coming to the Father?
That which often appears sudden and unaccountable is, if we did but
know it, a slow, beautiful evolution. It was now very nearly seven
years since the autumn afternoon when the man too nice to be a

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