We live on as usual. The day is a common day, the hour a common
hour. We never thought twice about the change of intention, which by one
of the accidents--(accidents!)--of life determined for good or for evil,
for happiness or misery, the color of our remaining years. The stroke of
the pen was done in a moment which led unconsciously to our ruin; the
word was uttered quite heedlessly, on which turned for ever the decision
of our weal or woe.
Eric lay silent. The darkness was not broken by the flashing of an
angel's wing, the stillness was not syllabled by the sound of an angel's
voice; but to his dying day Eric never forgot the moments which passed,
until, weary and self-reproachful, he fell asleep.
Next morning he awoke, restless and feverish. He at once remembered what
had passed. Bull's words haunted him; he could not forget them; they
burnt within him like the flame of a moral fever. He was moody and
petulant, and for a time could hardly conceal his aversion to Bull. Ah
Eric! moodiness and petulance cannot save you, but prayerfulness would;
one word, Eric, at the throne of grace--one prayer before you go down
among the boys, that God in his mercy would wash away, in the blood of
his dear Son, your crimson stains, and keep your conscience and
memory clean.
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