Now you can imagine how Marion tried no more to write; thought no more
about eloquence; this question, which had become to her the one terrible
question of life, was being looked into.

"How will we find out? Go by science into nature, and there's no proof
of it; God never forgives what seems to be the mistake of even a
reptile!"

I cannot tell you about the rest of that sermon. I took no notes of it;
my notes ended abruptly in the middle of a sentence; one cannot write
out words that are piercing to their hearts. I doubt if even Marion
Wilbur can give you any satisfactory account of the wording of the
sentences. And yet Marion Wilbur rose up at its close, with cheeks aglow
not only with tears, but smiles; and the question, "Will God ever
forgive sin?" she could answer.

There was a place where the burden would roll away. "At the place called
Calvary." She knew it, believed it, felt it,--why should she not? She
had been there in very deed, that summer morning. He had seen again of
the travail of his soul, he was one soul nearer to being satisfied.

There were other matters of interest: those two Bibles, symbol of the
Chautauqua pulse,--that were presented to the nation's highest officer;
the address which accompanied them--simple, earnest gospel; the hymn
they sang,--_everything_ was full of interest. But Marion let it pass by
her like the sound of music, and the words in her heart that kept time
to it all were the closing words of that sermon:

"Here I could forever stay,