She went on talking with Flossy, telling her about Charlie Flint, noticing the happy tears that glistened in Flossy’s eyes as she received her message, taking in the murmured words, “To think that Christ would honor such a feeble little witnessing as that!” and realizing even then that it would be very blessed to have one say to her, “You have been the means of leading me to think about this thing.”  Why should she care, though, whether people thought about this thing or not?  Yesterday she didn’t.  During all the talk she kept up this little undertone of thought, this running commentary on her sudden change of views and feelings, and wondered, and wondered, could it be possible that she was utterly changed?  And yet, when she came to think of it, wasn’t she?  Didn’t she love Christ?  And then it struck her as the strangest thing in the world not to love him.  How could any one be so devoid of heart as that?  Why, a mere man, to have done one-half of what Christ had done for her, would have received undying love and service.

As they walked they neared the stand, and there came just at that moment a burst of music, one of those strange, thrilling tunes such as none but the African race ever sing.  The words were familiar, and yet to Ruth they were new: 

    “There is a fountain filled with blood,
      Drawn from Immanuel’s veins,
    And sinners, plunged beneath that flood. 
      Lose all their guilty stains.”

A sinner!  Was she, Ruth Erskine, a sinner?  Yesterday she had not liked it to be called a prodigal.  But to-day, oh yes.  Was there a greater sinner to be found than she?  How long she had known this story!  How long she had known and believed of a certainty that Jesus Christ lived and died that she might have salvation, and yet she had never in her life thanked him for it!  Nay, she had spurned and scorned his gift!  So much worse than though she had not believed it at all!  For then at least she could not have been said to have met him with the insult of indifference.

Then the chorus swelled out on the still air.  Only those who heard it under the trees at Chautauqua have the least idea how it sounded; only those who hear it, as Ruth Erskine did, can have the least idea how it sounded to her.

    “I’ve been redeemed, I’ve been redeemed!”

Over and over the strain repeated.  Now in clear soprano tones, and anon rolled out from the grand bass voices.  And then the swelling unison: 

      “I’ve been redeemed—­
    Been washed in the blood of the Lamb.”

The girls had stopped, and almost held their breaths to listen.  They stood in silence while verse after verse with its triumphant swell of chorus rolled out to them.  The great tears gathered slowly in Ruth’s eyes, until, as the last echo died away, she turned to Flossy, and her voice was clear and triumphant: 

“I believe I have.  Flossy, I believe I have.  It is a glorious thought, and a wonderful one.  It almost frightens me.  And yet it thrills me with perfect delight.  The fountain is deep enough for us all—­for them and for me.  I have ‘been redeemed,’ and if God will help me I will never forget it again.”