One day, as he was passing a church, his eye was caught by a placard at the door, inviting, in bold letters, “friend, stranger, or traveller to enter, if but for a few minutes.”  It was a “business-men’s prayer-meeting.”  The novelty of the idea struck him; he was at leisure; he had no notes to pay; anybody might fail, for aught he cared.  He went in, and, to his surprise, saw, among the worshippers, scores of his old friends, engaged in devotion.  Like himself, they had, many of them, failed, and, after the loss of all temporal wealth, had turned their attention to the “more durable riches.”  He fell into a profound meditation, from which he did not recover until the meeting ended.

The next day he returned, and the day following, also,—­taking a seat each time a little nearer the desk, until at last he reached the front row of benches, where he was to be seen at every service.  It is not necessary to speculate upon his motives, or to conjecture how far he deceived himself in his professions,—­if, indeed, there was any deception in the case.  Let him have the benefit of whatever doubt there may be.  The leading religious men hoped, without feeling any great confidence; the world, especially the business world, mocked and derided.

But piety, in itself, however heartfelt, does not clothe or feed its possessor, and Mr. Sandford, even with that priceless gift, must find some means of supplying his temporal wants.  His new friends had plenty of advice for him, and some of them would have been glad to furnish him with employment; but none of them were so well satisfied with the sincerity of his conversion as to trust him far.  It was not to be wondered, after his exploits on the day of his failure, that there should be a reasonable shyness on the part of those who had money which they could not afford or did not choose to give away.  It was quite remarkable to see the change produced when the subject was introduced.  Faces, that a few minutes before had shone with tearful joy or rapturous aspirations, full of brotherly affection, would suddenly cool, and contract, and grow severe, when Sandford broached the one topic that was nearest to him.  He found that there was no way of escaping from the law of compensation by appropriating the results of other men’s labors,—­that religion (very much to his disappointment) gave him no warrant to live in idleness; therefore he was fain to do what he could for himself.  He tried to act as a curb-stone broker, as an insurance agent, as an adjuster of marine losses and averages, as an itinerant solicitor for a life-insurance company, as an accountant, and in various other situations.  All in vain.  He was shunned like an escaped convict; the motley suit itself would hardly have added to his disgrace.  No one put faith in him or gave him employment,—­save in a few instances, for charity’s sake.  Few men can brave a city; and Sandford, certainly, was not the man to do it.  The scowling, or suspicious, or contemptuous, pitying