“I will postpone that part of it, if you please”—­and Dale became rather stiff again—­“but with the intention of adverting to it later.  What I wish first to lay at rest is something in regard to the hymns employed on the occasion of my attendance.  The numbers were one hundred and twenty-six, six hundred and fifty-nine, and one hundred and ten.  Now I ask you as man to man, feeling sure you’ll give me a straight answer:  Were those hymns specially selected for the reason that I had chanced to drop in?”

Mr. Osborn stopped work, looked round quickly, and his face was all bright and eager.

“No.  But did you feel there was a special message to you in them?”

“I wouldn’t put it quite like that,” said Dale guardedly.

“Because it so often happens.  It has happened again and again—­to my own knowledge.”

“You’ll understand, Mr. Osborn, that I didn’t take them as any way personal to myself—­certainly not any way offensive; but it occurred to me that it might perhaps be the habit whenever a stranger dropped in to pick out hymns of strength, with a view to shaking him and warming him up, as it were.”

The pastor resumed his work.  “Those hymns were given out the day before—­Saturday.  Sister Eldridge had asked for one hundred and twenty-six; number six hundred and fifty-nine was, as far as I remember, also bespoken; and I chose number one hundred and ten myself—­because it is a great favorite of mine.  So you see, Mr. Dale, at the time we settled on those hymns, we did not know that you were coming—­and perhaps you did not know it yourself.”

“I did not know it,” said Dale.

“Tell me,” said Mr. Osborn, “how doubt has assailed you.”

“Ah, there you put me a puzzling one;” and Dale puffed at his pipe laboriously.

“You oughtn’t to doubt, you know.  You have what men prize—­wife, children, and home.  You thrive, and the world smiles on you.”

“Yes, I’m more than solvent.  I hope to leave Mrs. Dale and the babes secure.”

“But you don’t feel secure yourself?”

“I banked a matter of seven hundred last year.”

“You know I didn’t mean that.”  Mr. Osborn worked briskly, and sent the shavings almost to the ceiling.  “But still—­lots of men have told me that material prosperity renders faith easy and doubt difficult.  That’s the awful danger of trouble—­the danger of thinking that God has deserted us.  It’s easiest to recognize His hand when all’s going well with us.  That’s our poor human nature.  And then when our sorrows come, it’s the devil’s innings, and he’ll whisper:  ’Where’s God now?  He isn’t treating you very kindly, is He, in return for all your praying and kneeling and believing?’”

“Yes, that just hits the nail on the head.  It was what I said—­at a period when trouble fell upon me.  It was how the doubt came in and the belief went out.  And nowadays, when, as you mention, things run smooth and I know I’ve much to be thankful for, the doubt holds firm.  For one thing prob’bly, I read a great deal; I’ve crammed my head with science; can’t ever have enough of it.  But, of course, I’m but an ignorant man compared with you.”