offer to go on the stage.  She had a most wonderful manner in singing, and everybody was weeping before she had sung a dozen words.  That, of course, is not so strange an effect to be produced at a funeral service, but the voice itself was one of thousands.  I understand Miss Winslow sings in the First Church of Raymond and could probably command almost any salary as a public singer.  She will probably be heard from soon.  Such a voice could win its way anywhere.

“The service aside from the singing was peculiar.  The evangelist, a man of apparently very simple, unassuming style, spoke a few words, and he was followed by a fine-looking man, the Rev. Henry Maxwell, pastor of the First Church of Raymond.  Mr. Maxwell spoke of the fact that the dead woman had been fully prepared to go, but he spoke in a peculiarly sensitive manner of the effect of the liquor business on the lives of men and women like this one.  Raymond, of course, being a railroad town and the centre of the great packing interests for this region, is full of saloons.  I caught from the minister’s remarks that he had only recently changed his views in regard to license.  He certainly made a very striking address, and yet it was in no sense inappropriate for a funeral.

“Then followed what was perhaps the queer part of this strange service.  The women in the tent, at least a large part of them up near the coffin, began to sing in a soft, tearful way, ’I was a wandering sheep.’  Then while the singing was going on, one row of women stood up and walked slowly past the casket, and as they went by, each one placed a flower of some kind upon it.  Then they sat down and another row filed past, leaving their flowers.  All the time the singing continued softly like rain on a tent cover when the wind is gentle.  It was one of the simplest and at the same time one of the most impressive sights I ever witnessed.  The sides of the tent were up, and hundreds of people who could not get in, stood outside, all as still as death itself, with wonderful sadness and solemnity for such rough looking people.  There must have been a hundred of these women, and I was told many of them had been converted at the meetings just recently.  I cannot describe the effect of that singing.  Not a man sang a note.  All women’s voices, and so soft, and yet so distinct, that the effect was startling.

“The service closed with another solo by Miss Winslow, who sang, ‘There were ninety and nine.’  And then the evangelist asked them all to bow their heads while he prayed.  I was obliged in order to catch my train to leave during the prayer, and the last view I caught of the service as the train went by the shops was a sight of the great crowd pouring out of the tent and forming in open ranks while the coffin was borne out by six of the women.  It is a long time since I have seen such a picture in this unpoetic Republic.”

If Loreen’s funeral impressed a passing stranger like this, it is not difficult to imagine the profound feelings of those who had been so intimately connected with her life and death.  Nothing had ever entered the Rectangle that had moved it so deeply as Loreen’s body in that coffin.  And the Holy Spirit seemed to bless with special power the use of this senseless clay.  For that night He swept more than a score of lost souls, mostly women, into the fold of the Good Shepherd.