suggested the sweet voice.  Two weeks in a lonely country place had been far too long the summer before for Madame, and a wilderness was the last place she desired.  But the plaintive song touched a sentimental chord and answered every purpose.  Mr. Stockman, who sat midway of the center aisle, grasping his gold-headed cane, suffered the keen business lines of his face to relax and looked palpably pleased.  He recalled the money contributed to the expense of the choir, and reflected that he would not withdraw a dollar of it.  To be sure, he remembered that the services of this soprano, daughter of Robert Gray, the iron merchant and elder of the church, were gratuitous; but still he was glad to associate the thought of his money with the choir that could render such music.  And presently the chorus joined in the song, and many voices added their harmony, to the increasing passion of the cry: 

  “In the wilderness build me a nest,
  And remain there forever at rest!”

Sensitive souls thrilled to the music, which unquestionably always added the capstone to the aesthetic enjoyment of this, the most elegant church at New Laodicea.  The minister sat with a studied expression of approbation and subdued enjoyment.  The young stranger at his side sat with eyes shaded by his hand.

The choir seated themselves with pleased relief, for there had been no noticeable flaw in the production.  The leader’s sensitive face looked as nearly satisfied as it ever became over any performance.  The organist slid off his bench and dropped into his chair to listen to the sermon—­or, perhaps not to listen.  But he had done his part well, faithfully filling in all the interstices of time between numbers of the program, so that the congregation had been bored by no moments of silence nor thrust back upon the necessity of meditation.

There were a few words of introduction, and it was found that the stranger was to speak.  He was just a trifle surprising in appearance, for his coat had no ministerial cut, and was even a bit more suggestive of business than of the profession of divinity.  But he was soon forgiven this; for his voice was even and pleasant, and he looked at his congregation with a pair of frank blue eyes, while he spoke with the simplicity of a man who has somewhat to say to his fellowmen and says it honestly.  His text excited no curiosity, for it was this:  “The hour cometh, and now is, when the true worshipers shall worship the Father in spirit and in truth.”

In the choir Miss Winifred Gray had composed herself to listen.  Fortunately she was at the rear of her admiring hearers and had not to confront their faces as she sat down.  She had enjoyed her part exceedingly.  She loved her music, and the greater its pathos the keener her enjoyment in rendering it.  There was a subtle sense of power, too, which she did not analyze, in moving a whole congregation to admiration and sympathy.  With her whole heart