J.W.’s heart ached.  Without always realizing it, he had been counting on long talks with the pastor; there was so much to tell him.  And especially so since that wonderful day out in the middle of the Pacific, when he had seen what he even dared to call his ‘vision’ of the church.

So he said, “You and mother drive on home; I’ll walk up with Jeannette.”

For lovers who had just met after a year’s separation these two were strangely subdued.  They had everything to say to each other, but this sudden falling of the shadow of suffering on their meeting checked the words on their lips.

“Will he get better?” J.W. asked Jeannette.

“They fear not,” she answered.  “The doctors say he may live for several years, but he will never preach again.  He just sits there; he’s been so anxious to see you.  You must go to-day.”

“Of course.  And what shall I say about the wedding?  If he can’t leave his room——­”

Jeannette interrupted him:  “If he can’t leave his room, it will make no difference.  Church wedding or home wedding I should have chosen, as I have told you; but you and I, John Wesley, are going to be married by Walter Drury, wherever he is, if he’s alive on our wedding day.”

“Why, yes,” said J.W., with a little break in his voice, “it wouldn’t seem right any other way.  We can have the dinner, or breakfast or whatever it is, just the same, but we’ll be married in his room.  I’m glad you feel that way about it too; though it’s just like you.”

And it was so.  J.W. went up to the study as soon as he could rid himself of the dust of the day’s travel, more eager to show Walter Drury he loved him than to tell his story or even to arrange for the wedding.

As to that ceremony, the plans had long ago been understood; nothing more was needed than to tell Walter Drury his study afforded a better background and setting for this particular wedding than a cathedral could provide.

J.W. was prepared for a great change in Pastor Drury, but he noticed no such signs of breakdown as he had expected to see.  He did not know that the beloved pastor was keyed up for this meeting.  He could not guess that the beaming eye, the old radiant smile, the touch of color in a face usually pale, were on special if unconscious display because the pastor’s heart was thanking God that he had been permitted to welcome home his son in the gospel.

Those had been dreary days, in the hospital, despite the ceaseless ministries of nurses and doctors and friends from Delafield.  This hospital was a place of noble service, one of many such places which have arisen in the Methodism of the last forty years.  It was a hospital through and through—­the last word in equipment and competence, but not at all an “institution.”  It was at once a home for the sick and a training school of the Christian graces, where the distressed of body and mind could be given the relief they needed—­all of it given gladly, in Christ’s name.