'There is no rest, saith my God, to the wicked.'-- No rest! I have not known rest since I was a boy.--'Be sure your sin shall find you out.' I laughed at those words once; they laugh at me now.

I have found them out to be true, and found it out too late.
Too late! _Is_ it too late?
If these words be true, are not all the words of God equally true?
'The blood of Jesus Christ his Son cleanseth us from _all_ sin.' That was what you said, Pastor Mason, on that Sunday morning when the savages were stealing down on us.

It gave me comfort then; but, ah me! it seems to give me no comfort now.

Oh that I had resisted the tempter when he _first_ came to me! Strange! I often heard this said long, long ago; but I laughed at it,--not in scorn; no, it was an easy indifference.

I did not believe it had anything to do with _me_.
And now, I suppose, if I were to stand in the public streets and cry that I had been mistaken, with all the fervor of a bursting heart, men would laugh at me in an easy way--as I did then.
"I don't fear death.