As nearly as I remember, this was Mamie's prayer:--
"Dear Jesus, this man is sick. He has lost his little girl, and he feels
bad about it. I'm so sorry for him, and he's sorry, too. Won't you help
him, and show him how to find his little girl? Do, please. Amen."
Heaven seemed to open before us, and there stood One with the prints of the
nails in his hands and the wound in his side.
Mamie slipped away soon, and the man kept saying: "Tell him more about it.
Tell him everything. But, O, you don't know!" Then he poured out such a
torrent of confession that I could not have borne it but for One who was
close to us at that hour.
By and by the poor man grasped the strong hand. It was the third day when
the poor, tired soul turned from everything to him, the Mighty to save,
"the Man that died for me." He lived on for weeks, as if God would show how
real was the change. I had been telling him one day about a meeting, when
he said, "I'd like to go to a meetin' once."
So we planned a meeting, and the men from the mills and the mines came and
filled the room.
"Now, boys," said he, "get down on your knees, while she tells about that
Man that died for me.
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