314
T H E K I N G ’ S B U S I N E S S
August, 1939
There wasn’t any accident?” she asked Gordon, her tired eyes on. his, a sad, sad light in them. He saw that light and was troubled. “But the Life Line!” she continued. "It’s the same, in your palm and mine!” “And what of it ? ” "Oh, Gordon! I don’t want to be lieve it! It almost drives me insane to believe it!' It’s like—like slavery!” "Then don’t! For your soul’s sake, don’t! Oh, Fonda!” He was clinging to both her hands now as if he were afraid she would vanish. He turned them palms up. They were so soft, and smooth! He was very happy tonight, more happy, it seemed, than in all his life before. He could not account for it. Perhaps it was because he was delivered completely and finally from the net in which Rita had enmeshed him. But no, his joy was deeper even than that. Then he remembered—and for a moment he was again in the store alone, looking out of the stock-room window, over and above the world’s cheap pleasures, look ing to the stars and to their Maker, promising Him that by His grace he, Gordon Harrington, would declare to the world that he was the Lord’s. Again, in memory, he was on his knees in com munion with his Lord . . . he was mak ing the words come true . . . he was pressing the radto switch and bringing the gospel to Fonda! , The realization of how the Lord had led him to this moment gave him cour age. He arose quickly, crossed the room to the radio, pressed the button for KOA, and came back. "Gordon!" Fonda’s tone was pleading, anxious. She struggled weakly. Was she go ing to faint again? “The—the Life- Line—GOD’S Life-Line—I’m trying to hold on to it. . Soft and sweet came the last stanza of the final hymn of the radio program, as if the one who had selected it had known their exact need, or had chosen the hymn following the counsel of One who did. . . . “Place your hand in the nail-scarred Hand. . . ” The last full tones faded away. Trembling organ notes caught up the strain, repeating the melody. Fonda’s eyes were alight, aflame almost. “Oh, Gordon!’” she exclaimed. "That’s what I want to believe! That’s what I have to believe!” She lay back again, tired. “I’ll help you,” he said. “We’ll help each other. It’s not the lines in our hands that count anyway; it’s the scars in Christ’s hands. The Lord Jesus Christ died for us, Fonda—for you, and fqr me. We need Him as our Saviour eyery single day. It isn’t whether one’s [Continued on page 325] He looked at her, startled. “What is it? ” he whispered.
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BROKEN LIFE LINE [Continued from page 302] roaring and cracking. Electric sparks shooting. The head lamps of a car gleamed through the back window, and a roar ing, wild thing of steel and glass bore swiftly down upon them. It went tear ing and roaring past in a whirl of white dust. Girls screamed, the automobile horn blared wildly, brakes screeched, and the car careened madly, righted itself, and roared on into the night, while from the radio in Gordon’s car there came the final words of the hymn from KOA: “ . . . Someone is sinking today.” Gordon felt Fonda slump against his arm, her head against his shoulder. "Fonda!” he cried. He saw her face pale and cadaverous, her eyes staring. But she did not answer. He stopped the car at the side of the road, leaving the motor running and the radio on. He snapped on the ceiling lamp, and in that moment there welled up within him a feeling he could' not describe. “O God!” he breathed, “don’t let anything happen to her because of me! «.Don’t jmnish her because of my sin!.’*
Common sense came to the rescue. The girl had fainted and must be re vived. He thought quickly, desperately. Where should he take her? * * * # Fonda was lying on the couch in the living room in Mrs. Harrington’s home when she revived, and Gordon was bath ing her face with cold water. His un derstanding mother voas busy in the kitchen making coffee; keeping an anxi ous eye on the two through the open door. She had always been able to trust her son, and she would trust him now, even while she wondered and wor ried. She pould not understand the pres ent generation at all. He was calling her “Fonda.” Fonda! The name was familiar. Sud denly, she remembered. There had been a little Danish girl named Fonda about whom he had written home when he was at Ames last year. But no, it couldn’t be she, for the young woman on the couch was dressed in gypsy cos tume. The mother sighed. She knew Gordon would explain things later; he was that kind of son. She could not hear their conversation, but it did not matter. Fonda stirred restlessly on the couch. "Then your car — wasn’t — wrecked?
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