My children, I am an old man, I am shortly to die.If I have scolded forgive me.Let me leave with you my blessing, and my earnest prayer that you will not pass by God on the other side.The day will come when you cannot pass Him by.Meet Him first of your own accord and then when that other day comes He will know you as a friend..."The old man's voice faltered, failed, stopped.He himself seemed to be deeply affected.Was it acting? Maggie could not tell.At any rate he was old and ill and very shortly to die...
The woman next her was crying rubbing the knuckles of her shabby old gloves in her eyes, the bugles on her bonnet shaking like live things.
She snuffled through her nose to Maggie "Beautiful--beautiful--I'aven't 'eard such preaching since I don't know when."Thurston again rose.
"A solo will now be sung," he said."After the singing of the solo there will be a prayer offered, then a procession, headed by the choir, will be formed to march, with lanterns, through the town, as a witness to the glory of God.It is hoped that those of the congregation who have received comfort and help during this service will join in the procession.There will be a collection for the expenses of the Mission at the door."Maggie watching him wondered.Of what was he thinking? Was there any truth in him? Had he, perhaps, behind the sham display and advertisement that he had been building felt something stirring? Was he conscious, against his own will, of his falsehood? Had he, while building only his own success, made a discovery? She looked at him.
The dramatic mask hid him from her.She could not, tell what he was.