“So, my dear brother,” the letter ran, “I am giving you this responsibility as only a brother can.  I have left Evadne absolutely untrammelled.  I have no fear that my little girl will abuse the trust.  She is wise beyond her years, with a sense of honor as keen as your own.”

The Judge’s head sank upon his hands.  It was for Evadne’s good he had persuaded himself.  She was too much of a child,—­and now,—­the letter could not be delivered.  It meant disgrace and shame.  It was his duty as a father to shield his family from that.  How well he could picture Evadne’s look of bewildered, incredulous surprise, and then the pain, tinged with scorn, which would creep into the clear eyes.  And Jesus Christ!  The Judge’s head sank lower as he heard the voice which has rung down through the ages in scathing denunciation of all subterfuge and lies.

“Woe unto you ... hypocrites! for ye tithe mint and anise and cummin, and have left undone the weightier matters of the law, justice and mercy and faith.”

“Woe unto you ... hypocrites! for ye cleanse the outside of the cup and of the platter, but within they are full from extortion and excess.”

“Woe unto you ... hypocrites! for ye are like unto whited sepulchres which outwardly appear beautiful, but inwardly are full of dead men’s bones.”

Lower and lower sank the Judge’s head, until at last it rested upon the desk with a groan.

* * * * *

They were singing when Evadne reached the humble church which Dyce and Pompey called their spiritual home.  The walls were white-washed and the seats were hard, for the “Disciples of Jesus” possessed but little of this world’s goods.  Two prayers followed, full of rich imagery and fervid passion, and then a young girl with a deep contralto voice began to sing,—­

  “Steal away, steal away,
    Steal away to Jesus! 
  Steal away, steal away home,
    We ain’t got long to stay here.”

The soft, deep notes of the weird melody ended in a burst of triumph, and Evadne bent her head while her tired heart thrilled with joy.  When she looked up again Dyce was speaking.

“I’ve ben thinkin’, friens,” she said, “that we don’t get the sweetness of them words inter our hearts ez we should.  We’se too much taken up wid de thought of de heavenly manshuns to ’member dat de King’s chillen hez an inheritance on de earth.  We’se not poor, lonesome people widout a home!  De dear Christ promised, ’I will not leave youse orphans, I will come to youse,’ an’ he who hez de Lord Jesus alongside, hez de best of company.  ’Pears like we don’t let our Father’s message go any deeper dan de top of our heads.  Ef we believes we’se preshus in his sight,—­an’ de Bible sez we is,—­we’ll hev no occashun fer gettin discouraged, fer de dear Lord’s boun ter do de best fer his loved ones.  Ef we’se keepin’ company wid Jesus we’se no call ter want de worl’s invitashuns, an ef we’se hidden away in Christ’s heart dere’s no need fer us ter be frettin’ about de little worriments of earth.  Satan don’t hev no chance where Jesus is.  Ef we’se tempted, friens, an’ fall inter sin, it’s ‘cause we’se not livin’ close ter de Saviour.