I saw Mr. Bowen eagerly waiting to speak to his minister, and even the children were edging up to him with expectant faces.  “He always brings us apples,” my little lad explained to me in a whisper.

With entire change of voice he turned to Mr. Bowen and said:—­“How fares it with you, brother, in the darkness?”

“Well, all is well.”

In low, sympathetic tones he asked:—­“He still provides songs in the night?”

“Yes, almost as sweet as if Heaven itself were stooping to hear.”

“You have learned the secret God reveals to but few of us.”

“Ah, brother, the fault is all in us, not in Him.  Gracious as he is to me, all might share with me in this blessed inheritance.”

Mr. Lathrop turned to me.  “Our friend here certainly has meat to eat of which very few get the full taste.”

“I did not know there could be such joy in religion.  It is a revelation to me, sir.”

“Yes, we go out of our way to help others, not expecting to be repaid, and sometimes one of God’s angels meets us in human guise, and brings us a blessing compared with which our poor gift sinks into insignificance.”  He spoke to me in a low-tone.  Mr. Bowen could not hear; indeed he seemed never to notice conversation not addressed to him personally.  I fancied that his own thoughts were more agreeable than average conversation.  I stood uncertainly, longing to remain to hear more of the conversation passing between these two men, but afraid I might thereby violate some unwritten social code.  I knew very little of the relation between pastor and people at that time, especially in America.

Mrs. Blake possibly read my face.  She came to me and said:—­“Won’t you stay to prayers?  I guess most all the churches’ll listen to each other reading the Scripters and praying.  I know they’d take it as a favor.”  She tried to speak softly but Mrs. Blake’s voice had not been trained to fine modulations, and I felt certain Mr. Lathrop overheard her remark.

“I would like to stay if I am not intruding.”

“I guess the best of Christians never reckon folks in the way when they’re praying together, though I shouldn’t say much about them, not being one myself,” she said, dryly.

I sat down quite near to Mr. Bowen.  I wanted to study his face, and as I listened in silence, the conversation between the pastor and this member of his flock was a new and beautiful revelation to me.  The one seemed to help the other, while no stain of worldliness marred the even flow of their words.  After awhile Mrs. Blake handed the minister a well-worn Bible.  He opened it and turned the leaves thoughtfully, pausing at last at the 103d Psalm.  I looked at Mr. Bowen while Mr. Lathrop was reading.  His lips were softly moving as if in responsive worship, the expression of his face like a thanksgiving Psalm.