Then the solemn prayer from the pulpit--"O, Thou who lovest
all men, who art the Father of the old and the young, the rich and
the poor, and in whose sight they are alike precious, grant us Thy
blessing," came to the ears of the child, and a new cry awoke in his
soul. _Where_ was this Father? It did not seem true that He could
love him, a poor little, hungry, ragged beggar; that such a one
could be his child. But, oh! it was just what his heart longed for,
and if all others were _precious_ to this Great Father, he did not
believe He would leave him out. If he could only find Him--no matter
how long the road was, nor how cold and hungry he might be, he would
keep straight on the way, until he reached Him, and then he would go
right in and say, "Father, I am cold and hungry, and very wretched.
There is no one to love me, none to care for me. May I be your
child, Father?" And perhaps He would look kindly upon him, and
whisper softly, as no human being had ever whispered to him, "My
child!" and stronger and wilder from his heart came up that cry,
"Oh, if I could only find Him!"
Again the tones of the deep-toned organ and the sweet-voiced choir
floated on the Sabbath air, and crept, a strange, soft tide, into
the silent places of the boy's heart, softening and subduing it;
while during the long sermon, of which he heard little, and
comprehended less, that spirit cry rolled continually up from the
depths of his soul--"_Where_ is the Father?"
The benediction had been pronounced, and the house was disgorged of
most of its vast crowd of worshippers, and yet the boy lingered--he
could not bear to return to his dark and dismal dwelling, to the
harsh words and harsher usage of those who loved him not, without
having that question, which his soul was so eagerly asking,
answered.
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