But, by deliberately putting aside my convictions of God, prayer and
deliverance, treating them as if they had no existence in fact, I had
introduced an element of distrust of my own mental processes. The will
had taken the place of judgment, and the result was confusion; I was in
the fog. I never attended prayer meeting, but one Sunday night I was
passing the chapel where such a meeting was being held. I had been there
with my mother, as a boy, and while the meetings were "slow," they were
pervaded with a true devotional spirit and a something real, though to
me intangible and difficult to describe.

Whether I was influenced by the memory of these boyhood glimpses into
the spiritual world, or by the spirit of the scoffer and the cynic
possessing me at that time, or by the still small voice that had pointed
the way to safety only a few months before, I never fully knew, but I
went in.

The room was filled with people and a meeting was in progress, during
which two men, old neighbors, whose lives I knew well, told the story of
their recent conversion. One was Skipper Andrew Woodbury, a man of
blameless life, but who had lived sixty-five years without religion. The
other was my uncle by marriage, twenty years my senior, a close personal
friend and familiarly called "Dave." I had been in the habit of spending
many of my Sundays with him, as he was a non-church goer, companionable,
genuine and open-hearted as the day. It was evident that he had found
something that he wanted to share with his friends, and while I made
light of it at the time, his testimony made a profound impression on me.

Toward the close of the meeting the leader gave the invitation to those
"who want to become Christians" to rise. No one stood up. Then he came
within closer range and invited those "who would like to become