Forty years ago my father lived in a little village in the
State of Illinois, midway between St. Louis and Indianapolis. One
afternoon two young lads, covered with dust and toilworn, came to his
house and told him they were sons of an elder of a Christian Church in
Indiana; that they had been robbed in St. Louis, and were making their
way home on foot; they asked for something to eat. My father doubted
their claims; he felt that they were impostors; but my mother, who had
boys of her own out in the world, and who always believed the best of
everybody, said: "We will feed them and care for them during the night."
Their wants were supplied, and they were given lodging for the night,
and sent on their way the next morning with a good lunch for the day.
Six months afterward, I preached in Monroe County, Indiana, and,
stopping with one of the elders of the church, two young lads were
introduced to me as his boys. They asked me if my father lived in
Illinois. I told them he did. They then recounted their experience at my
father's home, and said to me: "We would be glad when you return home if
you will tell your father that you stopped at our house, and that you
know we were what we claimed to be when we sought his aid.
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