He was remembering his mother's voice as it had sounded nights when she had knelt beside his bed and prayed that her boy might become a Christian.
There had been one night that Claude would always remember, when his mother had come for the last time to his bedside, and prayed feebly for her boy.

The next week she had died.
Claude looked up at Neil, now.

The man evidently found the work hard, but his face showed that he had spoken truly when he said that he was glad, even though he did work on the hard, alkali clods.
"I wish I were like Neil," thought Claude.
The wish grew.

It changed into an earnest prayer, not that he might be like Neil, but a prayer for the same blessing that Neil had--a new heart.

No earnest prayer for that gift is ever met by a refusal.
Neil watched Claude anxiously, as they worked day by day.
"We can't change ourselves, any more than this alkali plot can change itself," said Neil, "but we can yield ourselves and our life to the blessed Jesus and love him, for he is love." One day, Claude said softly, "I've done it, Neil.