The notion cheered him a little, as the thought of flowers in the spring has a way of doing.  He made a rough plan of the garden, in his mind, laying out beds of sturdy bloom, training vines to cover the bleak expanse of stone, even planting a small tree or two of rapid growth—­for the benefit of whomever should follow him as a tenant of the old house.  Presently he closed the door with some sense of refreshment, mental and physical, and forced his thoughts into the channel it was now imperative they should occupy.

He took his way to the meeting in the schoolhouse, however, with a step less rapid than was usually his.  It might have been the enervating influence of the mild spring air; it might have been the pressure of certain recollections which he had not yet succeeded, in the two months which had passed since the farewell dinner at Webb Atchison’s, in so putting aside that they should not often depress and at times even dominate his spirit.  Though he had left the old life completely behind him, and had settled into the new with all the conviction and purpose he could summon, he was subject, especially when physically weary, as to-night, to a heaviness of heart which would not be mastered.

“But I must—­I must—­stiffen my back,” he said sternly to himself, as he neared the dingy schoolhouse toward which, from all directions, he could see his audience making its way.  It was not the first time he had addressed these girls and women, in so informal and unostentatious a manner that no one of his hearers had so much as suspected his profession, but had taken him for one of their own class.  “He’s got a way with him,” they put it, “that makes you feel like you could listen to him all night.”  The sight of them now provided the stimulus he needed, and as he smiled and nodded at two or three whom he had personally met he felt the old interest in his task coming to his aid.

And in a brief space he was standing before them telling them the things he had come to tell.  It was not his message he had lacked—­that had been made ready long before the hour—­it was only the peculiar power and magnetism of speech and manner which had been the treasure of St. Timothy’s, that he had felt himself unable to summon as he came to this humble audience.  But now, as almost always, he was able to use every art at his command to capture their attention, to hold it, to carry it from point to point, and finally to drive his message home with appealing force.  And this message was, as always, the simple message of belief in the things which make for righteousness.

Not all his auditors could arrive on time; they were obliged to come when they could.  Brown’s talks had to be subject to constant though painstakingly muffled interruptions, as one after another stole into the room.  His attraction for his hearers, however, once he was fairly launched, was so great that there were few wandering eyes or minds.  Therefore, to-night, when he had been speaking for a quarter of an hour, the quiet entrance of two figures which found places near the door at the back of the room disturbed nobody, and caused only a few heads to turn in their direction.