10. At Sundry Times and in Divers Manners
CHAPTER TEN
AT SUNDRY TIMES AND IN DIVERS MANNERS
WHEN IS THE SEARCH ENDED? In one sense, it is finished when our hand, stretched out to God in the name of His appointed mediator Jesus Christ feels the answering grasp and knows that He is there. But in another sense the searching never ends, for the first discovery is quickly followed by another, and that by another—and so it goes on.
As I write it is dawning a new day. The far horizon has seen the bright spot of the rising sun, but heavy clouds soon covered it. These clouds have become illuminated and streaks of pink and gold beauty are breaking through chance rents in their filmy cover. Glory after glory appears as the eye eagerly explores the heavens. And so it is with God. To find that He is, this is the mere starting-point of our search. We are lured on to explore what He is, and that search is never finished, for it grows more thrilling the further one proceeds.
Up to this point I have discovered that God is, and that He is mine by the mediatorship of Christ. I have discovered that He can and will teach me His way, or His plan for my life. I have found that He can overcome obstacles and that we do not need to arouse a great hullabaloo to get Him to do so. Hudson Taylor was right in his discovery: “Learn to move man, through God, by prayer alone.” By searching I have discovered that God has strange and sweet ways of manifesting Himself, at sundry times and in divers manners He is still speaking. He is just as versatile in caring for the needs of those who trust Him, and in this chapter I am going to tell how He provided for me in different ways at different times. I have already told how, through Marjorie Harrison, God provided my fare to Chicago and board and room at the Institute for one year. I have also told of His remarkable provision for my trip to Washington. How He made provision for the autumn term of 1925, when Marjorie’s money had all been used up and I was entirely dependent on my own earnings is another story of God’s care. It involves another life which had touched mine the previous spring.
It must have been about April, 1925, that I was struck by a prayer request given in the evening devotions hours. A graduate student got up and asked prayer for “a girl friend who has suffered a terrible tragedy and has lost her faith. She is coming to see me at the Institute. Pray she may find the Lord again.”
A girl, struck by heartbreak, pushed onto The Misty Flats and was floundering bitterly—I saw it all with a sympathy that pierced my heart. Lord, give her to me, I prayed inwardly. Oh, I can understand how she feels! I felt He answered that He would.
Humanly speaking, there was no likelihood of our meeting in the ordinary course of events. I was now working part-time as a noon rush-hour waitress, and the graduate student who had given the request moved in a different circle. “The élite” we laughingly dubbed those students who were wealthy enough to go through school without working their way. They had plenty of leisure and we had none, so “the élite” and “the workers” seldom met outside of classrooms. They had picnics and parties for which we could not afford the time and naturally each group clanned together. I could have pushed my way up to the graduate student and asked for an introduction and would have been nicely received, but I decided that if it were of the Lord, He must work it out in His own way. Then I would know that it was not my own impulsive wishing. I prayed about it.
The strange thing is that neither Ruth nor I can remember how it came about. I have a dim recollection of a chance encounter in the post office. I was watching the élite set for the appearance of a stranger, so spotted her early. She was tall and slim, with naturally curly light brown hair, and the soft accent of a Southerner. But why she noticed me among the hundreds of unfamiliar girl-faces at the Institute, I will never know. God answered my prayer and “gave” me Ruth—that is all I need to say.
Soon she was coming to our room for talks and pursuing me wherever she could catch this student laborer. I remember once encountering her just before the noon hour, when I was rushing off to be waitress at that restaurant—the employees’ restaurant of a large corporation near by.
“I want to talk to you!” she said.
“Fine,” I answered. “Can you come in tonight? I’m on my way to work now and dare not stop—I’ll just barely make it.”
“No!” she replied petulantly. “I want to talk now. I’ll walk with you to your job—nothing against that, is there, ma’am?” (We had great fun over the difference in Canadian and Southern speech-forms. To me, ma’am was the language of a servant to a mistress; to her it was the polite way to apologize. She laughed much and mimicked drolly my I beg your pardon? and rubbed in her ma’am as often as possible with a teasing sparkle in her eyes.)
Now I was just a little diffident about Ruth seeing me in that restaurant. I was servant to the servants there, so to speak, and the rush-hour girls had to take left-over apron uniforms, usually very ill-fitting ones. Ruth was the only child of well-to-do people, and cultured homes were her natural environment. What would she say if she saw me in that restaurant? But she was quick to notice my slight hesitation in accepting her escort, and nothing would shake her off from that moment. Right into the restaurant she came and saw it all—saw, too, my embarrassment, and mischievously determined to make the most of it.
Ruth was the twentieth-century counterpart of Mary Tudor—sister of Henry VIII. Charming, capricious, affectionate, and utterly lovable, clever and nimble-witted, she was still untamed. To use a more vulgar but more explicit word, she was unspanked. Her parents had spared the rod, and that kind of upbringing always follows a child through the rest of life.
It was impossible ever to “handle” Ruth. She saw you tuck the handle under your apron just as soon as you moved your arm, and with an almost devilish mischief she would whisk it out and brandish it before your chagrined face and defy you. She was my superior in personality, brains, social culture—in everything but one thing. She did not possess the fellowship of the Lord Jesus Christ or know Him as I did—and that was what I longed that she might. But I had not been with her long before I knew that I could never “deal” with her. She was too quick to recognize any such effort, and she had my own resentment at the invasion of her spiritual sanctum. She would open it up when and where she liked, but no one should knock it open. The only thing I knew to do was to love her and pray for her.
Somewhere along the line—maybe an evening session, relaxed on her bed, talking in the dark—she suddenly opened up and told me her tragedy. She had become engaged to one of God’s finest gentlemen, one who knew Him and served Him devoutly. But they had quarreled and Ruth had high-handedly broken their engagement. She had never meant really to break with Jack, for she loved him too dearly for that. But she had conceived a pique against life for disappointing her, and had to take it out on someone. At the first overture Jack might make she would melt and be his own darling Ruth again—that was her inward thought. But no overture came. She did not know that even while she had this tiff with him, he was going down with a fever. When she did learn of it, he was already in Heaven.
After this she had an unfortunate experience with a religious hypocrite, and with her lightning-like petulance had said that she could not believe in God when a Christian would act like that.
Yes, it is better to have the rod when you are a child. When life must wield it against you. it is too cruel. Can you think what her agonies were? Not just to have lost him—their wedding date had been set— but to have him go before she was able to say, “Oh, I did not mean it! I’m sorry. Please forgive me.”
Her kind, worldly father did the best he knew. He handed her his check-book and said, “Go to New York and have a good time. Forget the irrevocable.” She went, and all the wild life she led I did not care to hear about. One question was making my heart stand still: “Ruth, did you not grope for the low road?”
She was silent a moment. “I know what you mean. No. Somehow there has always been in me a hidden passion for chastity. But everything else I did—I was wild.”
I sighed a Thank God! Christ can save from the low road, where a man “wallows in fleshly things until his appetites become fibrous,” as praise God our city rescue missions all testify. As for the hidden passion for chastity, I understood that too.
Hast thou heard Him, seen Him, known Him?
Is not thine a captured heart?
Anyone who has ever really known the Lord, even only in reflection, can never again be satisfied with less.
“Did the check-book and New York’s wildest—help?” I asked.
She withered me with a look. “You know it didn’t.”
How I prayed for this dear, honest, if willful young life. I thought I had been able to help her out from The Misty Flats, but later she was sucked back in again. She is His now, however. In my Moody autograph book—which is a large tome—her autograph covers four pages, written in three installments. The first is one of her nonsense poems, shrewd with perspicuity. (She has a literary gift, among other things. The élite publishing houses reach after her manuscripts! They do not even know that I exist.)
The third installment reads:
Wonder if I’ll ever finish this—sounds like The Perils of Ruth in three installments. What I’ve been trying to say for the last two pages is that I love you (just plain, unadulterated, simple-minded love). You have meant so very much to me—you, yourself—and you have meant infinitely more in that you have both showed me the way and fought with me during these hard days of decision. I can wish no greater thing than that you may mean just that to these dear folks in China.
I know that Ruth had been “sifting” me. When she caught a glimpse of pride wincing, she seized on it and walked right to the restaurant to see every bit of it. More than that, at a later date, without any warning she brought a college girl friend with her to that same restaurant to catch me as I was.
But she did more than sift. Tenderly affectionate and generous, she discovered that I enjoyed beautiful things. Maybe it began by her getting permission from the dean to take me out for a meal—so we would have that much more time to talk. My frank delight in the harmonious drapes, shaded lights, and soft classical dinner music amused Ruth. From then on she deliberately hunted up quaint, pretty tea-rooms and increased the frequency of her invitations. With her unfailing charm, she could wangle a permission out of a dean that no one else would even dare to propose. And so she “embroidered” my days.
But her careless use of money shocked me. When away from Chicago she once sent me a telegram in lieu of a letter. When I remonstrated by letter I received a second telegram to laugh at me! No, you could not “handle” Ruth!
But there came a day when, to her astonishment, she found that someone else could be hard to handle too. The summer of 1925 I spent in Canada with my Aunt Nellie, Mother’s younger sister. On returning to the Institute I now faced having to support myself entirely. This meant working three times a day instead of only at noon, but I was highly favored, for I had obtained the post of waitress at the faculty table in the Institute dining room. This meant being down half an hour before each meal in order to prepare the food nicely, and it meant staying half an hour afterward to wash up and set the table, and then there was the time consumed in having my meal after the other students had already finished theirs. It was not too strenuous, however, for it was work among Christians—no more heathen Americans shouting at me. It was exacting, for I had to be there right on time, but it was no great distance away, such as the other job had been. No time was wasted in getting to work.
One day I was in the act of preparing a meal when in breezed Ruth. She had arrived unexpectedly with her parents for a short visit. “So this is what we are now!” she teased. “Say, I’ve got something to tell you.” With an eye on the clock hand which was traveling close toward my deadline, I said, “Keep it, dearie, until tonight—can you? I’m dying to hear it, but my job has to come first. I have to get this finished before the faculty arrives. I’m working full-time this term.” There would be no more meals out in pretty tearooms.
Ruth stood and pouted. “But I want to talk to you about my soul!” she said with a twinkle in her eye. “How important is that? And you stand there flaying radishes into rosebuds and say, ‘Another time.’ How do you know I’ll feel like talking about it at another time? There is something wrong here. Something’s got to be done about this.” Then she had to leave because the faculty were already beginning to arrive.
I felt very uncomfortable. It was true that Ruth wasn’t the kind of person who could open up the doors of her sanctum at any odd moment. On the other hand, I had to work, and surely the Lord expected faithfulness in my job. Inwardly I prayed for help and went on with the task in hand.
Ruth was busy too. She arrived in my room that evening her old gay self. “I have it all arranged!” she said happily. “No more table-serving for Little Pats!” That was her pet name for me. (Apparently I am addicted to short, quick movements when showing affection—many short, little kisses, and many little pats on the back in a hug. My children laugh at the former and Ruth declared she got homesick for the latter—and the name has pursued me through the years.)
“I told my father about you, and he says he will be delighted to support you through the rest of your schooling here. Now then! Whenever Ruthie arrives and needs talking to, she can have it. And many others too. Don’t you see the Lord’s hand in this—ma’am?”—with roguish delight. But I didn’t, and there was an awkward silence. Ruth’s father was a fine, clean man, but he played the races and gained his money in the usual worldly ways. Hudson Taylor believed firmly that God does not need, and will not use for blessing, money offered by unbelievers. God is able to provide for His own children apart from help from those who serve Mammon. “We can afford to have as little as the Lord chooses to give,” he once said, “but we cannot afford to have unconsecrated money.” But would Ruth ever be able to understand what I meant by refusing on that score? Her eyes sparkled with mischievous delight when I said her father’s money was unconsecrated—she would have a good time telling him that! Miserably, I tried to explain without appearing ungrateful. But when she saw that it really touched what was sacred to me, she accepted it quietly, for Ruth was a lady born. When her visit ended I was still faculty waitress.
But I had not counted on Ruth’s decisiveness. After a week or so, I received a letter from her. I wish I had it by me to quote from now, for nothing reveals her charm as much as her little notes. It simply stated that she had got herself a job teaching physical culture at their local Y.W.C.A., and her monthly salary was enough to pay my room and board. Now, she wanted to know, was that consecrated enough for me to use—ma’am? Not one cent of her father’s money would taint it. “Now, Lambkins, you know it will be good for Ruth to have to hold down a job! Now don’t you? Just think of the good you are doing me by accepting and thus making me an honest worker in the hive of life, and not a drone. Please write and tell me you accept.”
So you see, Ruth had “handled” me after all. I was never able to handle her, but that is how the Lord sent me support for the closing school term of 1925.
For Christmas, 1925, I was invited to the Harrison home. Dr. and Mrs. Norman B. Harrison were now living in St. Louis, where he was pastor of the famous old Washington-Compton Presbyterian Church. They have a family of six talented children, and with two or three of us guests added we made an hilarious house party. Members of his congregation invited us out to meals and helped to entertain us, but the most fun were the good times in their own home, where music and youthful antics embellished every day.
I arrived back at the Institute in January, 1926, expecting to continue in ray luxurious leisure. But a letter from Ruth was awaiting me. She had taken sick and the doctor forbade her to continue with her physical culture class. “Please let Father support you until I get stronger,” was her little wail. But I could not consider it, for it was not the pattern which God had showed me. One of my lodestar verses was Hebrews 8:5: “See that thou make all things according to the pattern showed to thee in the mount.”
From the mountain-top to the valley in one swing. How often life does just that! One moment having all things and at the peak of fun, and the next moment facing a grim poverty and hard work. For I must seek employment now and I had lost the comfortable faculty waitress job—it was never available for me again. Totally unprepared for this, I had not been careful in my spending, and now I anxiously marshaled out my funds. There was just enough to pay the first month’s board—we paid in advance— with something like eleven or twelve dollars over. I would barely make it. I must go to the employment office immediately and see what jobs they could find for me. The nicer jobs would be all gone by this time, and more than that, friends had been told that I was being supported all through school and no one would think to send me any extra gifts. But the Lord had not left me. It was another chance to search His powers—He was asking me to be willing for uncongenial work again.
As I sat looking at my accounts I suddenly saw something that made me go cold. In the Christmas rush I had forgotten to tithe my last income. What should I do? Let the tithe continue to slide for a while? I pondered a moment. What came first in life anyway? “Oh, Lord, You come first,” I whispered and resolutely set aside the tithe. That left me less than two dollars for a month’s carfare and incidentals—and I still had no job.
The Institute’s Employment Bureau found me two jobs, noon rush-hour girl at the same old restaurant, and waitress for Evening School supper at the Institute. I was now very busy indeed. The long walk to and from the restaurant, and a later hour getting to bed from the evening school began to tell on my health. Always thin, it was dangerous for me to lose weight, but I knew that I was doing so. By February my friends were beginning to notice that I looked haggard and tired, and I myself felt that I was near the breaking point. “Lord, is it Thy will that I have a breakdown?” I prayed in private.
One evening I was called over to the reception room to meet a visitor. Standing there, tall, smiling, and fatherly, was Dr. Harrison. In the city on special speaking engagements, he thought he would look me up. His keen eyes looked searchingly at me as we shook hands and he said, “How is it, Isobel? You look tired. Not working too hard, are you?”
“Perhaps I am,” I answered. “When I returned here from your place I found that I must work my way again. The lady who had been supporting me since Marjorie stopped has been sick and cannot do it any more.”
“Well, Isobel”—and the keen, kindly eyes again searched my face—“isn’t it wonderful that stop isn’t in the Lord’s vocabulary? He never gets sick and He never forgets our needs and He is never at the end of His resources. Do you remember when you were at our place at Christmas that you were invited out to dinner with Marjorie by a Miss Boyle?”
Oh, yes, that had been a real treat. Miss Boyle was a wealthy lady in Dr. Harrison’s congregation. She lived in an exclusive apartment hotel, the kind of place where an ordinary mortal scarcely dared to look, much less enter. Because of her love for Marjorie, Miss Boyle had included me in the invitation, but she had scarcely noticed me beyond the usual courteous care of one’s guests. But I did not mind that—it left me free to enjoy the exquisite appointments of the room, the table, and the meal. How much the Lord did give me! “As having nothing and yet possessing all things.” I was beginning to understand what Paul meant. But Dr. Harrison was talking.
“I saw Miss Boyle just before I left and when she heard me say I was coming to speak at the Institute she said, ‘By the way, I was thinking the other day that I have never made any gifts directly to a student at Moody Bible Institute. I feel I would like to help that little friend of Marjorie’s who came to my place for lunch that day.’ And Isobel, she handed me a check for two hundred dollars. I intended to give it you in small gifts, perhaps ten dollars at a time. But maybe I’d better give it all to you now”
Two hundred dollars—just like that. Truly at sundry times and in divers manners.
“Oh, if you did,” I cried, “then I could give up one of my jobs and not have to work so hard.”
“I’ll see you get it morrow, dear,” said that dear servant of the Lord, who went on his way.
So I was able to give up the evening work. The noon rush hour, though disagreeable, paid better for the time used, so I retained it. By this and with other gifts I managed to pay my way until summer.
When I returned for the last term (September-December, 1926) I was once more faced with earning my way entirely. The employment bureau put me in touch with Mrs. Frances Allison of the Practical Work Department, who gave me a very special assignment for Sundays—one which paid a salary! I was the Sunday pianist for St. Charles Reformatory for Boys, with the government paying the bill. I gasped at that assignment and expostulated to Mrs. Allison, “Oh, I can’t play the piano well enough to hold down that job! I am largely self-taught, and always before, this assignment has been given to a music major student. Isn’t that so?”
“True,” answered Mrs. Allison, “but I have heard you play for evening devotions, and I think you can make it. I’ll ask one of our instructors to give you some tips on evangelistic piano playing and get permission for you to practice on one of the pianos in the music department. The reason I chose you is that this assignment gives such a wonderful opportunity for personal work, and the lady who has been in charge until now is sick. A friend substituting for her is quite inexperienced in bringing children to decisions. You know the Reformatory, don’t you? Every kind of boy problem is there, from playing hooky from school to murder. There have been some remarkable conversions and we don’t want to see it slump. You are paid to play for the morning and afternoon services, but are allowed to visit the boys who are sick in the infirmary and deal personally with them between services. You get two meals into the bargain, so it will help you financially.”
With fear and trembling I accepted, and for four months every Sunday brought me thrilling experience. “My strength encampeth on weakness” is one rendering of II Corinthians 12:9. The substitute leader who taught the Sunday school lesson in the morning service was very conscious of her inexperience and the pianist (!) trembled lest she be called on to give a piano solo, which had sometimes been done. Truly I was weak, and therefore the Lord alone was exalted when scores of those boys decided for Christ. I could fill a chapter with all that took place at St. Charles Reformatory, but this is a chapter on finances, so I must continue with that theme.
Of course, the salary for piano-playing was only a mite. I had to take a major job besides that. The employment office found me another job as a waitress—those hours fitted my schedule best, but at a select tea-room near Michigan Boulevard. Noon and evening I was to serve, and the salary promised was good. It was situated in a private house, and the clientele were mostly high-salaried clerks or office workers from the wealthy district around. Undoubtedly I would get good tips in addition to the good salary. The widowed proprietor, Mrs. Mac, had been investigated, the moral atmosphere of the place had been approved, and all was trustworthy. Now at last I ought to have plenty of money, and this was a good thing, for the last term of school always brings extra expenses.
I liked it very much. Mrs. Mac was a middle-aged Southern lady, gracious and warmhearted. The tea-room was pretty, the food delicious, and the clientele very nice to me. My tips grew, and I was congratulating myself when a cloud appeared. At the end of the first month I walked in one morning to hear shouts and high words. The cook was swearing at Mrs. Mac, who was at the telephone.
“Isobel, stay here in this room,” commanded Mrs. Mac, all flushed up. “This woman is threatening my life. I’ve called the police and I do not dare to be left alone with her until they come here and put her out.”
“No need for the police if you will give me my salary!” shouted the excited and irate cook. “This is a nice place for you to be in, Miss Isobel! She pays nobody! I’ve worked here two months and have been paid hardly anything. She owes the butcher, the baker, the—”
“Shut up!” cried Mrs. Mac. “You lie.” And then they were at it again when a tall policeman arrived at the door and the cook had to leave.
My heart sank. That wonderful salary—would I really get it? Today was the end of the month and payday. Just what was the situation, anyhow? Within half an hour a new cook had arrived and the business of the day rushed on, but as I went from table to table my mind was busy on this problem. Should I ask Mrs. Mac for my salary? Or should I just pray that God would move her to give it to me? By the end of the day I had made a decision—I would speak if she did not offer to settle accounts. She made no offer, nor did she give any hint that she remembered my salary was due.
“Mrs. Mac,” I said as I put on my hat and coat, “tomorrow is the first of the month and I must pay my board and room bill at the Institute. Do you think you could let me have my salary tonight?”
She hesitated, then went slowly over to the till. “I had an unexpectedly big bill to pay today,” she said. “Could you take half your salary now and I’ll pay you the rest later?”
This was what I had feared. The dismissed cook had told the truth—Mrs. Mac was not in the habit of paying her bills. Her promises were wonderful, but it was quite a different thing to get her to keep them. Again I was in a predicament. If I reported this to the Institute, they would recall me, of course. But at this late date what other jobs would be available? Here at least I received something from tips—in fact, my tips for the first month, combined with what she had just given me, almost equaled the sum of the promised salary, and this gave me an idea.
“Mrs. Mac,” I said earnestly, “I am a Christian and accustomed to ask God directly for what I need. I cannot serve you for nothing, but I am willing to keep track of my tips, and at the end of each week if you will make up what is lacking to the amount you promised to pay, I will be content with that. Then we will ask the Lord to move the clients to tip me as much as is needed.”
She flushed a little. “But that is not right, Isobel,” she said. “The tips should be yours as extra.”
“But I am content and can make ends meet if I get what you originally promised me,” I replied.
“It is very good of you,” she said sadly, then opened up and told me her troubles. I do not believe she was deliberately crooked. She was just utterly undisciplined and improvident, having no conscience about debt, and spent freely what came into the till. Each Saturday I faithfully reported my tips, which continued to be high. Better able to part with a small sum than a large one, Mrs. Mac gave me her portion. I believe now that I was the only worker she hired who got paid regularly. Of course I talked to her about trusting the Lord for salvation. She liked to listen and often agreed with me, but as far as I could see the miracle of a new birth within her never took place. I fear that the habit of dishonest thinking had become her refuge from conscience. The new cook lasted only six or eight weeks and then there was a scene similar to the first one. She would pay a little on her big butcher’s and grocery bills, just enough to keep the stores from suing her, but of course that way of doing business could not go on forever.
One December morning I walked in to find the tea-room empty—nothing cooking in the kitchen, and nothing prepared for the lunch-hour clientele. I called Mrs. Mac, but there was no answer. The upper stories of this beautiful old home had been let out to roomers, and one of them hearing me came downstairs, dressed for departure.
“There has been a big blow-up here,” she said in a low voice. “I didn’t get it all, but I think the old lady has gone bankrupt. The cook made a furor about salary not paid and Mrs. Mac said she wished she were dead. Do you think she can have hung herself in the cellar? Better go down and have a look! I’m going to my office. Good-by.” And I was left alone in the empty room.
There followed a nerve-racking experience. All was silent as the grave, and imagination conjured up my going down a cellar and bumping into her dead body dangling from the rafters. I shook all over and couldn’t get up enough courage to open that cellar door. I prayed for the courage to go down and look, but did not receive it. I despised myself and lectured myself and asked the Lord how could I ever go to China if I did not have nerve enough to open a cellar door and go down and investigate. But I was petrified. I just could not do it.
After about an hour at length I heard a step on the veranda and ran forward eager to see another live human being. It was Mrs. Mac.
“Oh, Isobel,” she said with a heavy sigh, “I forgot about you. There won’t be any more tea-room. I’m bankrupt and the receivers are coming to take over the building. I’ve lost everything. I couldn’t stand the silence, so I’ve been out for a walk.”
“Mrs. Mac, I do wish you would give yourself to the Lord!” I said, trying again to help her, but nothing seemed to penetrate her mind. She was appreciative, almost affectionate toward me, but in spiritual matters she was vacant. She would not acknowledge she was a sinner, and that is the first step toward knowing God, so I had to leave her.
Again I was in a predicament—only a few weeks until graduation, and no income! I remember only two details of those last days. Mother had left me her silver service and Father asked to buy it from me for fifty dollars. That helped a lot.
Then came a day when a bill was due and I was five dollars short. I had been praying about it, but nothing had come in. The morning I had to pay it, I received a letter in which five dollars was enclosed, a letter from an old Christian lady whom my father had visited. When he told her I was working my way through Moody, she decided to send me that gift. She had not given me anything before, and she never gave me anything afterward, but on the morning of my tack her five dollars arrived.
At sundry times and in divers manners, always the good hand of my God was upon me. He had wrought wonderfully for Hudson Taylor, but as I looked back over my two years and four months at the Moody Bible Institute I felt He had done just as wonderful things for this little, unknown Bible student. By searching I had found God able and faithful to supply my financial needs. And He will do this for any of His children who trust and obey Him.