Winifred had a long talk alone with her father in the library later in the day.  She had thought out her reasons, and understood better, herself, the instinctive feeling that led her not to resume her place in the choir under the altered conditions.

“I am just beginning to worship, Father,” she said, “and I feel I could do so better out of sight—­for awhile, at least.  You do not know the temptation it would be to fall back into the old way.  I am afraid I could not stand it.  I would rather just slip into the congregation beside you, Father, and sing to God when my heart sings, and keep still when it doesn’t.”

So her father yielded the point to her conscience.

“God bless you, Winnie,” he said with glistening eyes, as he stroked her chestnut locks.  “It may be I have been a bit of an idolater, myself.”

Poor Mrs. Gray sighed, and quite gave up trying to understand Winifred’s strange position.  She hoped she would be able to give some suitable reason for withdrawing, and not set the whole church talking about her peculiar views.  She remembered hopefully that her daughter had suffered from laryngitis not long ago, and she mentally nursed the almost vanished trouble into proportions that would forbid her singing much.  She was sure Dr. Lansing would give an opinion to that effect now.  But, dear me! as for herself, she did not know how she should ever sit in that church and hear anyone else sing in Winifred’s place!

It was to be feared that there were many others who would find it difficult to sit in that church if their own natural wishes and tastes were not gratified there.  What it was to be gathered “in My name,” as the Lord Jesus had said,—­into the name of Him whose flesh with its longing and loves had been carried pitilessly to the cross, that from its death there might spring forth for all His own life in the Spirit unto God—­what this was, few at New Laodicea knew; nor what it was, so gathered, to behold Him in the midst.  Oh, lonely heart without the door of His own house!  He knocks patiently, not in the hope that the whole household will hear Him, but for “any man” who has ears to hear and will open to Him.

Winifred had another task before her that day, and she did it promptly.  She did not know how really in her ready obedience she was walking in the steps of “the father of all them that believe,” who, when Isaac was to be offered, rose early in the morning to go about the sacrifice.  She went straight to Mr. Mercer, the leader of the choir, and told him of her withdrawal.  She told her story with simplicity and dignity, and it commanded his respect.

“I honor your convictions, Miss Gray,” he said.  “We shall find it hard to fill your place, and I am very sorry you are going.  But I would not for a moment urge you to remain.  As I say, I honor your convictions.  I only wish I had the courage of them myself.”

His face grew heavy.  He knew well the deity that led him to that place, and the anxious care that governed each Sunday’s work.  To bring his choir to the perfect standard of musical merit which his artist soul craved was his ambition.  He knew pleasure as he approximated to that goal, and vexation almost to despair when he fell far short.  He knew it was not before God but at another shrine he poured out his soul’s libation.