a time against the forehead can see the writer and his surroundings.  It took no spirit of divination in Charlton’s case.  The trim and graceful figure of Isa Marlay, in perfectly fitting calico frock, with her whole dress in that harmonious relation of parts for which she was so remarkable, came before him.  He knew that by this time she must have some dried grasses in the vases, and some well-preserved autumn leaves around the picture-frames.  The letter said nothing about his trial, but its tone gave him assurance of friendly sympathy, and of a faith in him that could not be shaken.  Somehow, by some recalling of old associations, and by some subtle influence of human sympathy, it swept the fogs away from the soul of Charlton, and he began to see his duty and to feel an inspiration toward the right.  I said that the letter did not mention the trial, but it did.  For when Charlton had read it twice, he happened to turn it over, and found a postscript on the fourth page of the sheet.  I wonder if the habit which most women have of reserving their very best for the postscript comes from the housekeeper’s desire to have a good dessert.  Here on the back Charlton read: 

“P.8.—­Mr. Gray, your Hoosier friend, called on me yesterday, and sent his regards.  He told me how you refused to escape.  I know you well enough to feel sure that you would not do anything mean or unmanly.  I pray that God will sustain you on your trial, and make your innocence appear.  I am sure you are innocent, though I can not understand it.  Providence will overrule it all for good, I believe.”

Something in the simple-hearted faith of Isabel did him a world of good.  He was in the open hall of the jail when he read it, and he walked about the prison, feeling strong enough now to cope with temptation.  That very morning he had received a New Testament from a colporteur, and now, out of regard to Isa Marlay’s faith, maybe—­out of some deeper feeling, possibly—­he read the story of the trial and condemnation of Jesus.  In his combative days he had read it for the sake of noting the disagreements between the Evangelists in some of the details.  But now he was in no mood for small criticism.  Which is the shallower, indeed, the criticism that harps on disagreements in such narratives, or the pettifogging that strives to reconcile them, one can hardly tell.  In Charlton’s mood, in any deeply earnest mood, one sees the smallness of all disputes about sixth and ninth hours.  Albert saw the profound essential unity of the narratives, he felt the stirring of the deep sublimity of the story, he felt the inspiration of the sublimest character in human history.  Did he believe?  Not in any orthodox sense.  But do you think that the influence of the Christ is limited to them who hold right opinions about Him?  If a man’s heart be simple, he can not see Jesus in any light without getting good from Him.  Charlton, unbeliever that he was, wet the pages with tears, tears of sympathy with the high self-sacrifice of Jesus, and tears of penitence for his own moral weakness, which stood rebuked before the Great Example.