There were desks all over the room at regular intervals, and a larger desk up in front.  Almost all the people sat at desks.

There was a curious wooden box in front at one side of, the big desk, and a girl sat before it pushing down some black and white strips that looked like sticks, and making her feet go, and singing with all her might.  The curious box made music, the same music the people were singing.  Was it a piano? she wondered.  She had heard of pianos.  Her father used to talk about them.  O, and what was that her mother used to want?  A “cab’net-organ.”  Perhaps this was a cab’net-organ.  At any rate, she was entranced with the music.

Up behind the man who sat at the big desk was a large board painted black with some white marks on it.  The sunlight glinted across it, and she could not tell what they were; but, when she moved a little, she saw quite clearly it was a large cross with words underneath it—­“He will hide me.”

It was a strange place.  The girl looked around shyly, and felt submerged in the volume of song that rolled around her, from voices untrained, perhaps, but hearts that knew whereof they sang.  To her it was heavenly music, if she had the least conception of what such music was like.  “Glory,” “glory,” “glory!” The words seemed to fit the day, and the sunshine, and the deliverance that had come to her so recently.  She looked around for her companion and deliverer to enjoy it with him, but he had not come in yet.

The two girls were handing her a book now and pointing to the place.  She could read.  Her mother had taught her just a little before the other children were born, but not much in the way of literature had ever come in her way.  She grasped the book eagerly, hungrily, and looked where the finger pointed.  Yes, there were the words.  “Glory for me!” “Glory for me!” Did that mean her?  Was there glory for her anywhere in the world?  She sighed with the joy of the possibility, as the “Glory Song” rolled along, led by the enthusiasm of one who had recently come from a big city where it had been sung in a great revival service.  Some kind friend had given some copies of a leaflet containing it and a few other new songs to this little handful of Christians, and they were singing them as if they had been a thousand strong.

The singing ceased and the man at the big desk said, “Let us have the verses.”

“’The eternal God is thy refuge, and underneath are the everlasting arms,’” said a careworn woman in the front seat.

“’He shall cover thee with his feathers, and under his wings shalt thou trust,’” said a young man next.

“’In the time of trouble he shall hide me in his pavilion; in the secret of his tabernacle shall he hide me,’” read the girl who had handed the book.  The slip of paper she had written it on fluttered to the floor at the feet of the stranger, and the stranger stooped and picked it up, offering it back; but the other girl shook her head, and the stranger kept it, looking wonderingly at the words, trying to puzzle out a meaning.