He repeated parts of the sermon, rose to his feet, waved his
arms, thundered out the commonplaces of Salvation Army
Christianity, as if he had made an amazing theological discovery.
It was pathetic. It was ludicrous. It was also inconceivably
painful. At last he mopped his forehead and shiny head.
"Before that meeting was over I was on my knees praying beside
the girl whom I had designed to ruin. I went into the streets a
converted man, filled with the grace of God. I resolved to
devote my life to saving souls for Christ. My old habits of sin
fell away from me like a garment. I studied for the ministry. I
am now in deacon's orders, and I am the incumbent of a little tin
mission church in Hoxton. God moves in a mysterious way, Sir
Marcus."
"He is generally credited with doing so," said I, stupidly.
"You are doubtless wondering, Sir Marcus," he went on, "why I
placed such a long interval between my awakening and my
communicating with my wife. I set myself a period of probation.
I desired to be assured of God's will.
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