“I am and always have been opposed to large public funerals,” said Gray, whose complete wholesome simplicity of character was one of its great sources of strength; “but the cry of the poor creatures who knew Loreen is so earnest that I do not know how to refuse this desire to see her and pay her poor body some last little honor.  What do you think, Mr. Maxwell?  I will be guided by your judgment in the matter.  I am sure that whatever you and Miss Page think best, will be right.”

“I feel as you do,” replied Mr. Maxwell.  “Under the circumstances I have a great distaste for what seems like display at such times.  But this seems different.  The people at the Rectangle will not come here to service.  I think the most Christian thing will be to let them have the service at the tent.  Do you think so, Miss Virginia?”

“Yes,” said Virginia.  “Poor soul!  I do not know but that some time I shall know she gave her life for mine.  We certainly cannot and will not use the occasion for vulgar display.  Let her friends be allowed the gratification of their wishes.  I see no harm in it.”

So the arrangements were made, with some difficulty, for the service at the tent; and Virginia with her uncle and Rollin, accompanied by Maxwell, Rachel and President Marsh, and the quartet from the First Church, went down and witnessed one of the strange things of their lives.

It happened that that afternoon a somewhat noted newspaper correspondent was passing through Raymond on his way to an editorial convention in a neighboring city.  He heard of the contemplated service at the tent and went down.  His description of it was written in a graphic style that caught the attention of very many readers the next day.  A fragment of his account belongs to this part of the history of Raymond: 

“There was a very unique and unusual funeral service held here this afternoon at the tent of an evangelist, Rev. John Gray, down in the slum district known as the Rectangle.  The occasion was caused by the killing of a woman during an election riot last Saturday night.  It seems she had been recently converted during the evangelist’s meetings, and was killed while returning from one of the meetings in company with other converts and some of her friends.  She was a common street drunkard, and yet the services at the tent were as impressive as any I ever witnessed in a metropolitan church over the most distinguished citizen.

“In the first place, a most exquisite anthem was sung by a trained choir.  It struck me, of course—­being a stranger in the place—­with considerable astonishment to hear voices like those one naturally expects to hear only in great churches or concerts, at such a meeting as this.  But the most remarkable part of the music was a solo sung by a strikingly beautiful young woman, a Miss Winslow who, if I remember right, is the young singer who was sought for by Crandall the manager of National Opera, and who for some reason refused to accept his