Oh, the awful heart-breaking agony of shame. In America, in New York State, we had a cashier in a bank, who was in a hurry to get rich, so he appropriated the funds of the bank and invested them, intending to pay them back. But his investment was a failure. For a long time he kept the books so as to blind the bank examiner, but one day when the bank examiner was going over the books he detected the embezzlement. He called in the cashier—he had to acknowledge his defalcation. He was arrested, tried, and sent to State’s prison. He had a wife and a lovely child, a sweet angel-like little girl. Some time after his arrest and imprisonment the little child came home sobbing with a breaking heart. “Oh,” she said, “Mother, I can never go back to that school again. Send for my books.” “Oh,” she said, “my darling,” thinking it was some childish whim, “of course you will go back.” “No,” she said, “Mother, I can never go back. Send for my books.” She said, “Darling, what is the matter?” She said, “Another little girl said to me today, ‘Your father is a thief.’” Oh, the cruel stab! The mother saw that she could not go back to school. The wound was fatal. That fair blossom began to fade. A physician was called in, but it surpassed all the possibilities of his art. The child faded and faded, until they laid her upon her bed, and the physician said, “Madam, I must tell you this is a case in which I am powerless; the child’s heart has given way with the agony of the wound. Your child must die.” The mother went in and said to her dying child, “Darling, is there anything you would like to have me do for you?” “Oh,” she said, “yes, Mother, send for Father. Let him come home, and lay his head down on the pillow beside mine as he used to do.” Ah! but that was just what could not be done. The father was behind iron bars. They sent to the governor of the State, and he said, “I have no power in the matter.” They sent to the warden of the prison. He said, “I have no power in the matter.”
But hearts were so touched that they tramped up a case and summoned him as a witness. So they made arrangements whereby the father was suffered to come home under a deputy-warden. He reached his home late at night, and entered his house. The physician was waiting. He said, “I think you had better go in tonight, for I am afraid your child will not live till morning.” The father went to the door and opened it softly. The child looked quickly up. “Oh,” she said, “I knew it was you, Father. I knew you would come. I have been praying God to send you. Father, come and lay your head beside mine upon the pillow just as you used to do.” And the strong man went and laid his head upon the pillow, and the child lovingly patted his cheek, and died. Killed by shame. Men and women, hell is the place of shame, where everybody is dishonored.