CHAPTER

     I in the church
    II the house of Gray
   III the confession
    IV Adele
     V is god demonstrable? 
    VI Mr. Frothingham and the choir rehearsal
   VII A new Sunday
  VIII “Not of the world”
    IX “Two of me”
     X the church social
    XI Mr. Bond’s lecture
   XII the soul hears A cause
  XIII experience
   XIV A “Witless, worthless lamb”
    XV “Sell that ye have”
   XVI the missionary meeting
  XVII let the dead bury their dead
 XVIII god, my exceeding joy

CHAPTER I

IN THE CHURCH

It was Sunday morning in a church at New Laodicea.  The bell had ceased pealing and the great organ began its prelude with deep bass notes that vibrated through the stately building.  The members of the choir were all in their places in the rear gallery, and prepared in order their music in the racks before them.  Below the worshipers poured in steady, quiet streams down the carpeted aisles to their places, and there was a gentle murmur of silk as ladies settled in their pews and bowed their heads for the conventional moment of prayer.  Exquisitely stained windows challenged the too garish daylight, but permitted to enter subdued rays in azure, violet and crimson tints which fell athwart the eastern pews and garnished the marble font and the finely carved pulpit.  They fell upon the silvering hair of the Reverend Doctor Schoolman as he pronounced the invocation and read the opening hymn, but they failed to reach the young stranger, seated behind, who accompanied him this morning.

Faultlessly in their usual current ran the services until the time for the anthem by the choir, and then the people settled themselves comfortably in their pews with expectant faces and ears slightly turned to catch every strain from the well-trained voices in the gallery behind.  This time the selection was from Mendelssohn and a soprano voice began alone: 

  “Oh, for the wings, for the wings of a dove! 
  Far away, far away would I rove!”

Clear, pure and true, the sweet voice floated through the church.  With dramatic sympathy it yielded to the spirit of the melody and the pathos of the words.  It touched hearts with a sense of undefined sorrow and longing.  Madame Chapeau, the French milliner, who rented a sitting in the church of her patrons, sat with eyes filled with tears that threatened to plough pale furrows through the roses of her cheeks.

  “In the wilderness build me a nest,”