Why, sir, I could go into the street and find ten men in ten minutes who would be crucified a hundred times to save the souls of us from hell--_not_ if they were to be rewarded with a seat on the throne of God where they could send into hell those who did not believe in them--but for no reward whatever--out of a sheer love for humanity.

Don't you see, sir, that we have magnified that crucifixion out of all proportion to the plainest truth of our lives?
You know I would die on a cross to-day, not to redeem the world, but to redeem one poor soul--your own.

If you deny that, at least you won't dare deny that you would go on the cross to redeem _my_ soul from hell--the soul of one man--and do you think you would demand a reward for doing it, beyond knowing that you had ransomed me from torment?
Would it be necessary to your happiness that you also have the power to send into hell all those who were not able to believe you had actually died for me?
"One moment more, sir--" The thin, brown, old hand had been raised in trembling appeal, while the lips moved without sound.
"You see every day in the papers how men die for other men, for one man, for two, a dozen! Why, sir, you know you would die to save the lives of five little children--their bare carnal lives, mind you, to say nothing of their immortal souls.

I believe I'd die myself to save two thousand--I _know_ I would to save three--if their faces were clean and they looked funny enough and helpless.

Here, in this morning's paper, a negro labourer, going home from his work in New York yesterday, pushed into safety one of those babies that are always crawling around on railroad tracks.