Job trembled; he knew what the preacher meant, he knew how Peter felt.
"But," continued the speaker, "how sweet there came back to him the memory of another morning by the same Galilean waters, as he mused in the twilight, and heard the Savior call, not in anger but in love, 'Simon, son of Jonas, lovest thou me?' And back again, there where he had first loved Him, Peter came to the old life of love and loyalty. Memories of Pentecost, memories of life's trials and joys, ever transformed by the spiritual presence of his Master, made Peter cry from the depths of his soul, 'Unto you therefore which believe, he is precious.'"
Then the preacher went on, showing how that which endears anything in this world to our hearts should make Jesus doubly precious. He talked of money--of the treasure of the Sierras, and how much one thought it would buy; but after all, how little of love and hope and faith it could bring into a heart--those things which alone last as the years go on.
It was a pathetic little story he told of a baby's funeral up in one of the lonely, forsaken, sage-bush deserts, where, alone with the broken-hearted father amid the bitter winds and snows of a bleak March morning, he laid the only babe of a stricken home to rest in the frozen earth, many miles from any human habitation; of how the father leaned over and said, as the box vanished into the ground, "Sing 'God be with you till we meet again,'" and how, as they sang it, out against the winter storm the light of heaven came into that man's face. "Tell me," the minister asked, as he leaned over the pulpit, "how much gold could buy the comfort afforded by that hymn and that hope?" And Job, thinking of the thousands he had handled at the Yellow Jacket, felt that that hymn was worth it all.
Then the preacher talked of diamonds and of the preciousness of Jesus; of the trinkets hid away in many an old trunk, precious because of memories that clustered around them; and Job thought of his mother's Testament. He said the life-memories that cluster around Jesus are more precious than any other; and Job said "Amen" to that. At last he talked of friends and how they are worth more than gold or diamonds or relics of the past; and Job thought of Aunty Perkins--why, there she was across the aisle, as intent as he; the sight of her face cheered him. Then he thought of Jane--where was she? Job looked furtively about, but could not see her. A little unrest filled his soul.