"Oh, Miss Rose, I was longing for you to come.

You can tell Aunt Emma." Miss Rose sat down beside the bed, and laid her hand gently on Emma's hand.

"I wish I was more clever," she said, wistfully.

"I wish I could make you feel how dearly Jesus has always loved you, how He has wept for you and longed for you, how He has forgiven you all the neglect and insults you have heaped on Him, and has held out His arms, beseeching you to come to Him! At this very moment He is standing at the door, patiently waiting for you to let Him in.
Will you keep Him outside, dear Emma ?" Miss Rose's voice died away, and silence reigned in the darkening room; the fire fell together and sent up a cheerful flame, Emma Smith lay thinking,--"Was it really true that He wanted her ?" That she had turned her back on Him, and mocked and insulted Him, she knew, knew better than anyone else could,--and could He really love her in spite of all?
Miss Rose's voice broke the silence, singing softly, "Knocking, knocking, who is there?
Waiting, waiting, oh, how fair! 'Tis a Pilgrim, strange and kingly, Never such was seen before; Ah, my soul, for such a wonder Wilt thou not undo the door?
Knocking, knocking--what, still there?
Waiting, waiting, grand and fair, Yes, the pierced hand still knocketh, And beneath the crowned hair Beam the patient eyes, so tender, Of the Saviour, waiting there." Low sobs broke from the poor soul on the bed, sobs of grief and joy and repentance.

"If He really cares--if He is really like that!" she sobbed.