be waged; but I have reached the point where I have ceased to be afraid
of myself--of my baser nature. As Cardinal Wolsey says to Cromwell: "I
know myself now." You remember we used to read the lines out of the
old reader when I went to school to you at Emburg.

I cannot tell you how much I thank God for the help that has come to
me. But I am forced to say that you are entitled to almost equal
thanks. And, indeed, as I review the past, I know that without you,
even the God of heaven could not have received the gratitude I now give
Him. For you were the means by which I was lead to a point where I
could receive His aid. It is you, therefore, my benefactor and my
noble friend, whom I have first to thank. I say this in simple justice
to you, who bore with me so long and patiently, and who remained
faithful to me when it seemed to me you were terribly unjust and cruel.

But to my history:

When you left me on the train, I cared next to nothing as to what
became of me. I don't believe I should have lifted a finger to save my
life had the train been wrecked. I would not deliberately take my own
life, but if it could have been taken from me I should have given it up
without a regret. I cared not for man, and as for God, I neither
feared such a being nor believed in his existence.

But your words stung me like burning lances. They were true, every one
of them, and the "Other Fellow"--indeed, I have not forgotten him, nor
has he forgotten me, and for this I have to thank you, also,--took them
up and kept saying them over to me, as I rolled along to my
destination, which as yet I did not know. I tried to be rid of them,
but it was useless. The truth had been told me for once in my life,