Roberts
bent himself again to the task of getting his business letters answered.
Before he had written one more line, her face had cleared. She
interrupted him:--
"Evan, when you talk about four hundred clerks, and multiply that by
hundreds of houses and more hundreds of clerks, I cannot follow you at
all. It is not that I am not impressed with the number,--I am,--it
appalls me; but I don't want to be appalled; I want to be helpful.
Perhaps just now there is nothing that I can do for the hundreds, so I
want to narrow my thoughts down to what, possibly, I can do. What, for
instance, can be done towards getting a good young man, like Alfred
Ried, into a place that will be just a little bit like a home; that will
give him a spot where he can study his Bible in comfort, and invite a
friend with whom he wants to pray, or whom he wants to reach and help
in any way? That isn't a huge problem. Can't it be solved?"
Her husband smiled.
"He is only one of thousands," he said.
"Yes, I know; but he is _one_ of thousands. Since we cannot reach
thousands, shall we fail to reach one? Evan, I am only one of thousands,
but, but how would you argue about me?"
Mr. Roberts laughed again.
"You are one out of thousands and thousands!" he said, emphatically.
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