“Are you going to hear Doctor Schoolman?” he asked.

“Why, I suppose so,” said she.  “What else should one do?”

“What is he going to preach about?” he asked evasively.

“I don’t know.  Let’s look in the paper and see.”

So they found Saturday’s paper and saw that this evening was to have the first of a series of discourses on “Poets and Their Teachings,” with Tennyson as the first subject.

“I am not hungering for a literary lecture,” said Hubert.  “I should like to hear something clearly about Christ.”

“We might go somewhere else,” said Winifred, giving the suggestion which he wished.

They looked at the paper again to see the advertised subjects at various churches.  They found some sensational, that might bear reference to the Lord or might not; some very promising, but at churches too far away; and finally they decided upon a little church in a street near them, whose modest announcement told simply of “preaching at 7:30.”

It was with something of a spirit of adventure and an almost troubled conscience that Winifred deserted her usual place of attendance.  They turned down a less fashionable street than their own and came to the church, a small brick structure, very fresh and new looking.  A few young people still lingered about the door, loath to go in from the summer twilight.  Within the newness rivaled that without.  The pew backs shone with varnish, and the aisles glowed with fresh, red carpet.  The simple pulpit was carefully polished and a bright bookmark hung from the gilt-edged leaves of the Bible.  The choir occupied a platform at the right of the minister, facing the congregation, and each member held the visitors in view as they were shown to a seat.  The evening congregation was scattering, so their advent was the more noticeable.  They were early also, which gave the young girl organist some time to look at them fixedly across the back of the cabinet organ at which she was seated, before beginning her voluntary.  Then she played “Alice, Where Art Thou?” with loud and ill-assorted stops.  Had Winifred been less bent on sincere worship, or their quest for Christ-preaching been less serious, she would have found it difficult to keep from laughing with the sudden sense of humor which assailed her.

The service was nearly as elaborate as the statelier neighbor-church could boast.  The choir rendered an anthem in process of time, and Winifred studied their faces earnestly, wondering if any thought of reality was in their hearts as they sang.  They were nearly all young, with thoughtless, unspiritual faces, but they sang the sentiments of discipline and sorrow.  There was no artistic value in their singing, and Winifred thought with a sigh, “It does not help any that the music should be poor.  They have no more heart in it than had we with our trained skill.”