being tempted and sinning, but the results of the sin are closely
knit to it. They come automatically, as surely as a stream from a
fountain. The promise of knowing good and evil was indeed kept, but
instead of its making the sinners 'like gods,' it showed them that
they were like beasts, and brought the first sense of shame. To know
evil was, no doubt, a forward step intellectually; but to know it by
experience, and as part of themselves, necessarily changed their
ignorant innocence into bitter knowledge, and conscience awoke to
rebuke them. The first thing that their opened eyes saw was
themselves, and the immediate result of the sight was the first
blush of shame. Before, they had walked in innocent unconsciousness,
like angels or infants; now they had knowledge of good and evil,
because their sin had made evil a part of themselves, and the
knowledge was bitter.

The second consequence of the fall is the disturbed relation with
God, which is presented in the highly symbolical form fitting for
early ages, and as true and impressive for the twentieth century as
for them. Sin broke familiar communion with God, turned Him into a
'fear and a dread,' and sent the guilty pair into ambush. Is not
that deeply and perpetually true? The sun seen through mists becomes
a lurid ball of scowling fire. The impulse is to hide from God, or
to get rid of thoughts of Him. And when He _is_ felt to be
near, it is as a questioner, bringing sin to mind. The shuffling
excuses, which venture even to throw the blame of sin on God ('the
woman whom _Thou_ gavest me'), or which try to palliate it as a
mistake ('the serpent beguiled me'), have to come at last, however
reluctantly, to confess that 'I' did the sin. Each has to say, 'I
did eat.' So shall we all have to do. We may throw the blame on
circumstances, weakness of judgment, and the like, while here, but