Over the church, in the silence that followed this strange scene, sobs and the noise of weeping arose.  When had the First Church yielded to such a baptism of tears?  What had become of its regular, precise, conventional order of service, undisturbed by any vulgar emotion and unmoved by any foolish excitement?  But the people had lately had their deepest convictions touched.  They had been living so long on their surface feelings that they had almost forgotten the deeper wells of life.  Now that they had broken the surface, the people were convicted of the meaning of their discipleship.

Mr. Maxwell did not ask, this morning, for volunteers to join those who had already pledged to do as Jesus would.  But when the congregation had finally gone, and he had entered the lecture-room, it needed but a glance to show him that the original company of followers had been largely increased.  The meeting was tender; it glowed with the Spirit’s presence; it was alive with strong and lasting resolve to begin a war on the whiskey power in Raymond that would break its reign forever.  Since the first Sunday when the first company of volunteers had pledged themselves to do as Jesus would do, the different meetings had been characterized by distinct impulses or impressions.  Today, the entire force of the gathering seemed to be directed to this one large purpose.  It was a meeting full of broken prayers of contrition, of confession, of strong yearning for a new and better city life.  And all through it ran one general cry for deliverance from the saloon and its awful curse.

But if the First Church was deeply stirred by the events of the last week, the Rectangle also felt moved strangely in its own way.  The death of Loreen was not in itself so remarkable a fact.  It was her recent acquaintance with the people from the city that lifted her into special prominence and surrounded her death with more than ordinary importance.  Every one in the Rectangle knew that Loreen was at this moment lying in the Page mansion up on the avenue.  Exaggerated reports of the magnificence of the casket had already furnished material for eager gossip.  The Rectangle was excited to know the details of the funeral.  Would it be public?  What did Miss Page intend to do?  The Rectangle had never before mingled even in this distant personal manner with the aristocracy on the boulevard.  The opportunities for doing so were not frequent.  Gray and his wife were besieged by inquirers who wanted to know what Loreen’s friends and acquaintances were expected to do in paying their last respects to her.  For her acquaintance was large and many of the recent converts were among her friends.

So that is how it happened that Monday afternoon, at the tent, the funeral service of Loreen was held before an immense audience that choked the tent and overflowed beyond all previous bounds.  Gray had gone up to Virginia’s and, after talking it over with her and Maxwell, the arrangement had been made.