folk at the jail and in the morphine dens; besides, I'll show you a
place you never have seen or heard tell of, where these poor souls
live--a place condemned by the authorities, but not torn down yet."

I told her that, God willing, I should be very glad to have her
accompany me. Then she took out of her pocket a letter, saying, as she
did so, "I wrote this to some one you know." (Here she described one of
the poor prisoners.) "You can take it up to your room and read it if
you like, and mail it for me tomorrow, please."

Soon we joined the rest of the family in their evening devotions, and
Callie went back to her place.

I read and reread that wonderful letter before retiring, and as soon as
convenient the next morning I telephoned to Callie to ask whether I
might copy it before mailing it. She gladly gave me permission, and now
I give you the letter almost word for word:

San Jose, Cal. Aug. 18, 1903.

Dear Nan:

No doubt you will be somewhat surprised to receive this from me, but it
is surprising--and wonderful the way God has of lifting us up out of
sin. Now what has been done for me will be done for you if you will
only let him have his way with you. Surely "the way of the transgressor
is hard," and the devil is a poor pay-master. I know you are so tired
of that life that you will be willing to say, "O Lord, anything but
this; 'better a dry crust of bread with quietness than a house full of
sacrifice, with strife.'" The truth is a bitter pill, and many have