My first interview with Juda was extremely painful. She hid her head,
her great wall eyes rolling fearfully, and cried bitterly, "Oh! I am
forever undone. Why did I not listen to your entreaties, and heed the
kind advice of my good master, to lay up treasures in heaven as well as
in the savings' bank!" I remained silent by her bedside, thinking it
better for her to give full vent to her agonized feelings before I
should probe her wounded spirit, or try to console her. "Oh," said she,
"that I could once more have health, that I might attend to what ought
to have been the business of my life--the care of my soul." "Yes, Juda,"
I replied, "but I see, I think, plainly, how it would be had you ever so
much time. You would not be very likely to improve it aright, for even
now you are wasting this last fragment of time that remains to you in
fruitless regrets; why not rather inquire earnestly, 'Is there still any
hope for me? What shall I do to be saved? Lord, save me, or I perish.'"
For some time her emotions choked her utterance, at length she seized
both my hands so forcibly that it seemed as if she would sever them from
my wrists, and exclaimed, "Oh, pray for me!"
Her condition was an awful one. From the nature of her ailment she was a
loathsome object. Not one of her old companions would approach her, for
to them she was now peculiarly an object of terror.
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