"What do you want with me?" she cried. "I have enough to bear."
The burly black figure before her seemed to tower and strengthen;
the man's face in the wall light showed a terrible life-purpose
coming out bare.
"I want you to do your work. It is hard, it will wear out your
strength and brain and heart. Give yourself to these people.
God calls you to it. There is none to help them. Give up love,
and the petty hopes of women. Help me. God calls you to the
work."
She went, on blindly: he followed her. For years he had set
apart this girl to help him in his scheme: he would not be balked
now. He had great hopes from his plan: he meant to give all he
had: it was the noblest of aims. He thought some day it would
work like leaven through the festering mass under the country he
loved so well, and raise it to a new life. If it failed,--if it
failed, and saved one life, his work was not lost. But it could
not fail.
"Home!" he said, stopping her as she reached the stile,--"oh,
Margret, what is home? There is a cry going up night and day
from homes like that den yonder, for help,--and no man listens."
She was weak; her brain faltered.
"Does God call me to this work? Does He call me?" she moaned.
He watched her eagerly.
"He calls you. He waits for your answer. Swear to me that you
will help His people. Give up father and mother and love, and go
down as Christ did. Help me to give liberty and truth and Jesus'
love to these wretches on the brink of hell.
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