But there seemed to be, if not a lack of interest, at least a lack of energy.  For many weeks before the time Carl assembled the choir for special rehearsal at least twice a week.  And while progress was made, yet there seemed to be a lack of enthusiasm in both singers and organist.  The cause of this was soon apparent.  Carl was ill; and the day that the president went to New York to meet his friend, Carl was attacked with a raging fever.  It was seen very quickly that the young man ought to have given up much sooner and the best medical aid was hastily summoned.  Of course a substitute must be provided, and the committee succeeded in securing the services of Professor Schuets, from New York, to have charge of the organ and music during the dedicatory services.  When the day (the Sabbath) for the great service came Carl lay in his bed delirious with typhoid fever.  Nancy Sparrow was his faithful nurse, while Tom was hands and feet to his mother.  It was really pathetic to see the little fellow as he sat near the bed so vigilant and anxious in his desire to be of service.  And when the doctor came, how his great blue eyes watched his every movement!  Then he would waylay the doctor as he left the house, asking if Carl were not improving, and if he would not be up in a few days.  But the physician did not dare encourage the boy.  It was soon observed that every morning and evening, immediately after the doctor’s visits, Tom walked over to the office in the warehouse, where Giles more than once found him engaged in earnest prayer for Carl’s recovery.

“I tell you, Mrs. Sparrow,” said Giles on one of these occasions, “Carl will get well.  Tom talked to God today, and I don’t believe that God will refuse the little fellow what he wants.”

It was on one of those visits that Billy, who was in the root cellar under the warehouse, heard the lad’s footsteps and, slipping upstairs, listened to the prayer of his boy.  These were his words:  “Dear Father in heaven, maybe you are tired of hearing me ask you for the same thing so many times, but there is nothing else that I want; but I do want Carl.  I would not have to ask my earthly father so often, if he could possibly do it; but he isn’t able. You are able and, somehow, I can’t understand why you don’t.  Father and mother and I all love Carl; he is one of us; and what would the bishop do without him?  And now, dear Father, I’m going back to the house to see if he isn’t better.  I know you will do it.  Amen.”

The two prelates sat in the resident bishop’s study.  “There is a sample of my secretary’s work,” said Bishop Albertson, as he handed an account book to his friend, “and it is as accurate as it is beautiful.”

Bishop McLaren started when his eyes fell upon the ledger.  After a moment’s hesitancy he remarked:  “Never but in one instance have I seen as fine work.  That was the writing of my own dear boy; those capitals are just like his.  Ah, well.”