The unusually large local attendance upon the sessions of the Conference had given some of the more guileless of visiting brethren a high notion of Tecumseh’s piety; and perhaps even the most sophisticated stranger never quite realized how strictly it was to be explained by the anxiety to pick out a suitable champion for the fierce Presbyterian competition.  Big gatherings assembled evening after evening to hear the sermons of those selected to preach, and the church had been almost impossibly crowded at each of the three Sunday services.  Opinions had naturally differed a good deal during the earlier stages of this scrutiny, but after last night’s sermon there could be but one feeling.  The man for Tecumseh was the Reverend Theron Ware.

The choice was an admirable one, from points of view much more exalted than those of the local congregation.

You could see Mr. Ware sitting there at the end of the row inside the altar-rail—­the tall, slender young man with the broad white brow, thoughtful eyes, and features moulded into that regularity of strength which used to characterize the American Senatorial type in those far-away days of clean-shaven faces and moderate incomes before the War.  The bright-faced, comely, and vivacious young woman in the second side pew was his wife—­and Tecumseh noted with approbation that she knew how to dress.  There were really no two better or worthier people in the building than this young couple, who sat waiting along with the rest to hear their fate.  But unhappily they had come to know of the effort being made to bring them to Tecumseh; and their simple pride in the triumph of the husband’s fine sermon had become swallowed up in a terribly anxious conflict of hope and fear.  Neither of them could maintain a satisfactory show of composure as the decisive moment approached.  The vision of translation from poverty and obscurity to such a splendid post as this—­truly it was too dazzling for tranquil nerves.

The tedious Bishop had at last begun to call his roll of names, and the good people of Tecumseh mentally ticked them off, one by one, as the list expanded.  They felt that it was like this Bishop—­an unimportant and commonplace figure in Methodism, not to be mentioned in the same breath with Simpson and Janes and Kingsley—­that he should begin with the backwoods counties, and thrust all these remote and pitifully rustic stations ahead of their own metropolitan charge.  To these they listened but listlessly—­indifferent alike to the joy and to the dismay which he was scattering among the divines before him.

The announcements were being doled out with stumbling hesitation.  After each one a little half-rustling movement through the crowded rows of clergymen passed mute judgment upon the cruel blow this brother had received, the reward justly given to this other, the favoritism by which a third had profited.  The Presiding Elders, whose work all this was, stared with gloomy and impersonal abstraction down upon the rows of blackcoated humanity spread before them.  The ministers returned this fixed and perfunctory gaze with pale, set faces, only feebly masking the emotions which each new name stirred somewhere among them.  The Bishop droned on laboriously, mispronouncing words and repeating himself as if he were reading a catalogue of unfamiliar seeds.