“He knows not how long he may have the _opportunity_ of doing either. Remember, Harry, the fate of your young companion, Sam Porter, hurried in one instant into eternity—not one moment given him to repent, to call on his Saviour!—all his _opportunities_ past for ever!”
“Well, my boy,” said Thorn, more cheerfully, “if you have made good resolutions and broken them a hundred times, _try again_; try with _faith_ and _prayer_, and God may give you the victory yet! I heard a little allegory to-day. I thought that it might interest, and perhaps benefit you; so, as it is too dark at present for reading, I will repeat it to you, if Mrs. Brown would like to hear it.”
“I am quite agreeable,” said the old woman, leaning back in her arm-chair.
“Real truths shown in fiction. You will understand better what an allegory is when you have listened to this. It is called the story of
“A young boy entered a beautiful garden, which extended as far as the eye could reach. Through the whole length of it stretched a narrow avenue, bordered with overhanging trees. Slowly the boy pursued his way along it, listening to the songs of the birds, and admiring the green foliage above him, through which, here and there, streamed the rays of the glorious sun. He quickly perceived that he was not alone; on either side, all down the long avenue, stood a line of maidens, beautiful to behold. They were all robed in white, with wreaths of fresh flowers on their heads, and greeted the boy with a bright smile of welcome. Each held in her right hand a vase of gold, in her left a sharp iron dart.”
“I do not understand this allegory at all,” said Harry. “Did any one ever see such maidens as these?”
“These maidens,” replied Thorn, “are well known to _all_—they are called _Opportunities_. Who has not met with opportunities of doing good, opportunities of receiving good?”
“As the boy approached the first maiden, she held out her vase to him, and invited him to take the contents. On the golden vase appeared the word PRAYER, and the sweetest, fairest fruits were heaped up within it; but the boy scarcely glanced at the proffered gift. ‘It is wearisome!’ he cried; so pushed it aside and passed on.”
“Opportunity for prayer!” cried old Mrs. Brown. “Ah, sir, who can count how many times we have pushed that away from us! God forgive us!”