more than the brief, deep, pathetic groan of a wounded heart.  He had probably built many hopes upon Demas, and not without reason.  In his arduous labours among the Gentiles he had found him an efficient helper, and many were the hours of sweet communion he had spent with him and others, in discussing the triumphs of the Gospel.  And he was confident that now in his bonds, waiting the pleasure of the Roman tyrant, he would have derived comfort from his companionship and encouragement from his faithfulness.  But alas! these bright hopes had been cruelly shattered; for in the hour of his greatest need Demas had abandoned him.  The apostle was too grieved to use harsh language—­too grieved, not only at his own disappointment, but also when he thought of Demas’s own future.  Unconsciously, in this unostentatious exercise of self-restraint, he has left us an impressive lesson in Christian charity, and has shown us the way in which those who fall away from their steadfastness ought to be treated.  How many of those hapless delinquents might have been reclaimed, had the high, noble, generous spirit which animated the apostle been manifested towards them by those whose confidence they had betrayed, it is impossible to tell; but it is certain that not a few.

The question that presents itself here is this:  In what light are we to regard Demas’s character?  Was he a cool, calculating, determined apostate; or did he simply give way to weakness?  There is an essential difference between the two cases, and they ought to be judged accordingly.  There are men who through sheer perversity renounce their faith, and are not ashamed to vilify the religion which they once professed.  They are generally embodiments of irreverence, who glory in their atheism, and talk of infidelity as if it were a cardinal virtue.  Whenever there is foul work to be done, they are almost always to the fore; whenever holy things are to be held up to ridicule, they are the men to do it.  These are deliberate apostates; men who with their eyes open prefer darkness to light, who of set purpose deny the truth and embrace error.  Happily the world contains but few such.  To the honour of human nature, fallen though it be, it may be said that it instinctively recoils from such characters with a sense of horror.  We do not think for a moment that Demas belonged to this class, though the terms in which he is sometimes spoken of might lead one to suppose so.

There are others who fall away through weakness.  They find themselves in circumstances for which they are not prepared—­circumstances by which their faith is sorely tried—­and, lacking that strength of conviction, which alone can give stability, they recede from the position which they took up with so much apparent enthusiasm.  Theirs is not that deep spiritual experience which makes its possessor count suffering as a privilege and martyrdom as a crown.  They rejoice for a season in Christ and His salvation, but “they have no root