"AMEN."

Back of the Old Brick Church, in Fulton street, a group of people had gathered, drawn there by a man's voice in earnest, almost agonised pleading, which came from the lecture-room, and fell upon the stillness of the night with a force and pathos that made every third man that passed, turn aside and listen.

After a little time, men came out of the cross streets and alleys, and crowded up to the church, like ghosts and shadows, drawn from their hiding places by a voice that was indeed crying aloud in the wilderness of a great city.

The room behind that grim old church, had long been known as a place of midnight prayer, and it was no unusual thing for men, women and children, to gather under its shelter, some from sheer curiosity, some to mock and gibe, others to escape from the cellars and garrets of a tenement house, and a few hard-working men, came there reverently after a season of toil, for words of hope and consolation of which their daily life was so barren.

This night, the little knot of people grew into a crowd,—a dense, squalid mass of humanity, evidently gathered from the very dregs of the people; for after business hours, the neighborhood of the old church was haunted by the desolate and the dissolute, who wanted shelter, or craved even the excitement of a prayer-meeting, rather than remain in their own miserable homes.

But those who came from idle curiosity, or with a mocking spirit stayed, spell-bound by the touching eloquence of a tall spare man, who stood in one end of the lecture-room, pleading with the hardened souls gathered around him, as if each man had power over his own life.

A man was walking down the street evidently on his way to the ferry, when this strange voice, so full of passionate devotion, fell upon his ear. He stopped suddenly, turned his face towards the church, and listened with intense interest. The light of a street lamp lay full upon his face, which was lighted up with surprise at first, then settled into a look that it would be difficult to describe.

"By Heavens! it is his voice as I first heard it; with the old trumpet tone, the clear, ringing sentences. At last, at last I have found him. No two voices like that ever mocked Heaven."

The man had on a traveling cap, which he drew down over his face, then, buttoning the linen duster that he wore, over a handsome suit of black, turned and made his way quietly through the crowd till he stood just within the lecture room, and commanded a view of all that was passing there.

He stood in the midst of a crowd of squalid men and women from the neighboring lanes and cross streets, newsboys ready for any lark after a hard day's toil, and bootblacks with boxes and brushes slung to their backs, lured from their way home by the crowd and that strange ringing voice; added to these, washerwomen with their baskets of clothes on their arms, arrested on their way home with the week's wash, by these unusual signs of life about the old church, appeared here and there in the throng.

The man who had been so strangely arrested on his way to the ferry, kept his place resolutely by the door, to which the outside crowd huddled up like sheep, hesitating to leap over the bars of a strange pasture. After waiting a little, these groups broke up, and glided away into the shadowy corners, some hiding their faces, ashamed of the tears that attested to the humanity within them, others seating themselves on the benches, with their startled faces uplifted, and their wild eyes glowing beneath this fervent eloquence, which rang over them and thrilled the silence of the deserted streets.

There was something wild and almost sublime in the earnestness of this man. His dark gray eyes were black with excitement, his sensitive mouth curved and trembled under the torrent of burning words that shook them as they rushed forth to startle and thrill that motley crowd. The stranger at the door kept his place, and listened with a cynical smile on his lips, and a gleam of triumph in his eyes. The wonderful eloquence of the speaker, his wild, pathetic pleading, which thrilled its way even to the hardened souls around him, made no impression on this man. His face never changed its unpleasant smile, until the speaker alluded with touching humility to his own unfitness as a teacher. Then his sinister look hardened into a wicked sneer, as the speaker dwelt on this subject with almost abject self-abasement, proclaiming that he did not assume to teach his hearers from a stand-point of superior christian excellence, but as a fellow-creature, given to grievous backsliding, weak and infirm of purpose, unfit even to plead with his fellow men, except by the grace of God.

That which the lecturer said of himself was true. The truth stirred every feature of his face, and suffused his eyes with unshed tears, as he spoke of himself as no better than those who listened to him, of sins which outmatched theirs, inasmuch as greater advantages had been given to him, and such powers as neglect or persuasion turned into curses.

This language was not unusual in these night meetings, but never before had it seemed so intensely real. There was no mock humility in those tones, no impudent attempt to win a miserable notoriety, by proclaiming imaginary sins, in order to find the level of his hearers. The pathos of his self-reproach, won his hearers into quick sympathy. There was little action in this man's delivery, no stormy sound, no studied rhetoric. I cannot tell you where his force lay, but it made those rough natures shake their sloth and aspire for the time, at least, toward that human goodness which seemed so beautiful, when his lips portrayed it.

He turned toward the crowd at the door, and reaching forth his arms, pleaded like a drowning man, that all should join with him, and struggle forth to the better life.

"Listen to one who has known the bitterness of sin, the misery of evil doing," he said, "and come forth into the pure light. If a knowledge of sin, and a loathing of it, can fit a fellow being to guide you in all humility, then may I entreat you to listen. There is not in all this crowd, man or woman, whose transgressions have been more deeply dyed than those of the fellow mortal, who pleads with you this night."

"Amen!"

These words came ringing in from the door, loud and distinct; sharp, too, from the venom that cut through it. The burning eloquence died on those ashen lips. One word had struck the speaker dumb. His outstretched arms fell heavily; great drops started on his forehead, his limbs began to waver.

"Who is it that speaks?" he cried out, with agony in his voice.

There was no reply, but for an instant the stranger lifted his cap, and looked in through the door, smiling as his eyes met the wild orbs wandering over the crowd.

The speaker took a handkerchief from the desk before him, clutching it tightly in his hand, and made a feeble effort to wipe the drops from his forehead. Then his limbs gave way, and he sunk slowly to his knees, his face drooped forward, and for a moment the silence of death fell upon the startled crowd.

Directly that white face was uplifted, and the first words of an agonised prayer struggled through those quivering lips—louder and firmer it rose, till the very soul of the man cried out to God for help, with passionate vehemence. At last he stood upon his feet, and looked around the room, as if nerving himself to meet some enemy.