``It will be all right,'' said Lincoln, when Conwell finished. But Conwell was still frightened.

He feared that in the multiplicity of public matters this mere matter of the life of a mountain boy, a private soldier, might be forgotten till too late. ``It is almost the time set--'' he faltered.

And Conwell's voice almost breaks, man of emotion that he is, as he tells of how Lincoln said, with stern gravity: ``Go and telegraph that soldier's mother that Abraham Lincoln never signed a warrant to shoot a boy under twenty, and never will.'' That was the one and only time that he spoke with Lincoln, and it remains an indelible impression.

The third time he saw Lincoln was when, as officer of the day, he stood for hours beside the dead body of the President as it lay in state in Washington. In those hours, as he stood rigidly as the throng went shuffling sorrowfully through, an immense impression came to Colonel Conwell of the work and worth of the man who there lay dead, and that impression has never departed.

John Brown, Abraham Lincoln, old Revolutionary Lexington--how Conwell's life is associated with famous men and places!--and it was actually at Lexington that he made the crucial decision as to the course of his life! And it seems to me that it was, although quite unconsciously, because of the very fact that it was Lexington that Conwell was influenced to decide and to act as he did. Had it been in some other kind of place, some merely ordinary place, some quite usual place, he might not have taken the important step. But it was Lexington, it was brave old Lexington, inspiring Lexington; and he was inspired by it, for the man who himself inspires nobly is always the one who is himself open to noble inspiration. Lexington inspired him.

``When I was a lawyer in Boston and almost thirty-seven years old,'' he told me, thinking slowly back into the years, ``I was consulted by a woman who asked my advice in regard to disposing of a little church in Lexington whose congregation had become unable to support it. Iwent out and looked at the place, and I told her how the property could be sold. But it seemed a pity to me that the little church should be given up. However, I advised a meeting of the church members, and I attended the meeting. I put the case to them--it was only a handful of men and women--and there was silence for a little. Then an old man rose and, in a quavering voice, said the matter was quite clear; that there evidently was nothing to do but to sell, and that he would agree with the others in the necessity; but as the church had been his church home from boyhood, so he quavered and quivered on, he begged that they would excuse him from actually taking part in disposing of it; and in a deep silence he went haltingly from the room.

``The men and the women looked at one another, still silent, sadly impressed, but not knowing what to do. And I said to them: `Why not start over again, and go on with the church, after all!' ''

Typical Conwellism, that! First, the impulse to help those who need helping, then the inspiration and leadership.

`` `But the building is entirely too tumble-down to use,' said one of the men, sadly; and Iknew he was right, for I had examined it; but Isaid:

`` `Let us meet there to-morrow morning and get to work on that building ourselves and put it in shape for a service next Sunday.'

``It made them seem so pleased and encouraged, and so confident that a new possibility was opening that I never doubted that each one of those present, and many friends besides, would be at the building in the morning. I was there early with a hammer and ax and crowbar that Ihad secured, ready to go to work--but no one else showed up!''

He has a rueful appreciation of the humor of it, as he pictured the scene; and one knows also that, in that little town of Lexington, where Americans had so bravely faced the impossible, Russell Conwell also braced himself to face the impossible. A pettier man would instantly have given up the entire matter when those who were most interested failed to respond, but one of the strongest features in Conwell's character is his ability to draw even doubters and weaklings into line, his ability to stir even those who have given up.

``I looked over that building,'' he goes on, whimsically, ``and I saw that repair really seemed out of the question. Nothing but a new church would do! So I took the ax that I had brought with me and began chopping the place down.

In a little while a man, not one of the church members, came along, and he watched me for a time and said, `What are you going to do there?'

``And I instantly replied, `Tear down this old building and build a new church here!'

``He looked at me. `But the people won't do that,' he said.