Mrs. Laynes, whose eldest boy jumped off the dock last Spring in a fit of delirium tremens, came to Maurice with tears in her eyes to thank him for holding a temperance meeting.  “I can’t do anything but pray,” she said; “but oh, Pastor, that I can and will do.”

The meeting was certainly a remarkable success, there was just opposition enough to make it so.  Those that were determined it should succeed were there ready to speak, to sing, to pray.  Those that did not believe in it were there to see it fail.  Those that were indifferent were there, curious to see whether it would succeed or fail, and what it would be like.  And Deacon Goodsole and Miss Moore were there with their recruits, a curious and motley addition to the congregation.  The church was full.  Every ear was attention; every heart aroused.  And when finally good old Father Hyatt, with his thin white hair and tremulous voice, and eyes suffused with tears, told in tones of unaffected pathos, the sad story of Charl.  Pie’s death, I do not believe that even Jim Wheaton’s eyes were dry.  At all events I noticed that when, at the close of the meeting, Maurice put the question whether a second meeting should be held the following month, Jim Wheaton was among those who voted in the affirmative.  There were no dissentients.

When I came home from this meeting, I put on paper as well as I could Father Hyatt’s pathetic story.  It is as follows: 

CHAPTER XXVII.

Father Hyatt’s Story.

If you had known Charlie P., and had seen his little struggle, and had felt as I did the anguish caused by his tragic death, you would not talk of moderate drinking as a remedy for intemperance.

I was away from my parish when I first heard of it.  I very well remember the start with which I read the first line of the note, “Charlie P—­ is dead;” and how after I had finished the account, written in haste and partaking of the confusion of the hour, the letter dropped from my hands, and I sat in the gathering darkness of the summer twilight, rehearsing to myself the story of his life, and the sad, sad story of his tragic death.  Years have passed since, but the whole is impressed upon my memory in figures that time cannot fade.  If I were an artist, I could paint his portrait, I am sure, as I see him even now.  Such a grand, open-hearted, whole-souled fellow as he was.

It was about a year before that I first saw him in my church.  His peculiar gait as he walked up the center aisle, first attracted my attention.  He carried a stout cane and walked a little lame.  His wife was with him.  Indeed, except at his office, I rarely saw them apart.  She loved him with an almost idolatrous affection; as well she might, for he was the most lovable man I ever knew; and he loved her with a tenderness almost womanly.  I think he never for a moment forgot that it was her assiduous nursing which saved his life.  His face