I cannot tell you how much I thank God for the help that has come to me.  But I am forced to say that you are entitled to almost equal thanks.  And, indeed, as I review the past, I know that without you, even the God of heaven could not have received the gratitude I now give Him.  For you were the means by which I was lead to a point where I could receive His aid.  It is you, therefore, my benefactor and my noble friend, whom I have first to thank.  I say this in simple justice to you, who bore with me so long and patiently, and who remained faithful to me when it seemed to me you were terribly unjust and cruel.

But to my history: 

When you left me on the train, I cared next to nothing as to what became of me.  I don’t believe I should have lifted a finger to save my life had the train been wrecked.  I would not deliberately take my own life, but if it could have been taken from me I should have given it up without a regret.  I cared not for man, and as for God, I neither feared such a being nor believed in his existence.

But your words stung me like burning lances.  They were true, every one of them, and the “Other Fellow”—­indeed, I have not forgotten him, nor has he forgotten me, and for this I have to thank you, also,—­took them up and kept saying them over to me, as I rolled along to my destination, which as yet I did not know.  I tried to be rid of them, but it was useless.  The truth had been told me for once in my life, and I saw myself as I really was.  It was not an inviting sight, but it is one I should have been forced to see, long before.

I reached the end of my journey, a place which, as you would not know its name then, it is perhaps well that you should never know.  I had no money, and I was hungry.  Ordinarily, I should have struck some one for a loan, but your words rang in my ears, and I would not do it.  I applied for a job of work that I knew I could do.  I got it, and did it as well as I knew how to.  I hide my face even now, for very shame, as I confess that it was the first time, for years, that I had done as well as I knew how to do.  I got my pay, and ate an honestly earned, though frugal supper, that evening.  I think you will understand me when I tell you that I went to bed happier that night than I had before for a long time.  The “Other Fellow” said, “It is all right, Old Boy!  Stand by!” I did “stand by,” and I have been standing by ever since.

And first, as I learn you are still teaching, I want to ask you never to give up your boys, nor your way of managing them.  You can never know how much you did for me in the Emburg school.  Those old days come back to me almost every hour, and their essence is a part of my being.  I know that you must have thought, ten thousand times, that all your work was lost, and counted for nothing.  You had every reason in the world for thinking so, and doubtless did think so.  But I want to beg of you now,