"I should like it of all things," was his reply.

In less than half an hour we had started, and before night had arrived
at our destination.

It always seems to me that one feels one's personal insignificance more
keenly in a big city than anywhere else. The hurry and bustle on all
sides witness to the self-interest which rules every individual of the
crowd, to the exclusion of any sincere concern for others. The feeling
was accentuated when we reached the hotel. There all was brightness
and movement; in the brilliantly lighted dining-room guests were
eating, drinking, chatting, and enjoying life; in the hall and on the
staircases attendants were moving swiftly about, visitors were coming
and going. Each one's pleasures, comforts, and advantages were the
business of the hour. Yet in some chamber overhead a momentous crisis
was at hand for one poor, lonely man, who had to leave behind him this
scene of busy life, to enter upon an eternity of weal or woe. Upon the
passing moments everything depended for him; he had to prepare to meet
his God. Around him things were taking their usual course; it mattered
little to the majority of the people under that roof whether he lived
or died, and less still how his soul would fare in that passage. Yet
the things which made up the present happiness of the crowd were those
which he had labored so strenuously to procure--ease, enjoyment,
freedom from care--the companions of wealth. For these he had bartered
not only the toil and stress of his best years, but something
infinitely more precious; part of the price had been the favour of his
God! Now he had to part with all these gains, willing or unwilling;
would he have the grace to sue for the mercy which might still be his
for the asking?