Levi Boulter was a middle-aged widower, with a large family, who was supposed to have cast a matrimonial eye Flora Janeward.  The use of his name was an effective thrust on Mrs. Bell’s part, and silenced Flora Jane.  Too angry for speech she seized her sister’s arm and hurried her into church.

But her victory could not remove from Mary Bell’s soul the sting implanted there by Flora Jane’s words.  When her husband came up to the platform she put her hand on his snowy arm appealingly.

“Oh, David, won’t you get up to-night?  I do feel so dreadful bad—­folks are talking so—­I just feel humiliated.”

David Bell hung his head like a shamed schoolboy.

“I can’t, Mary,” he said huskily. “’Tain’t no use to pester me.”

“You don’t care for my feelings,” said his wife bitterly.  “And Mollie won’t come out because you’re acting so.  You’re keeping her back from salvation.  And you’re hindering the success of the revival—­Mr. Bentley says so.”

David Bell groaned.  This sign of suffering wrung his wife’s heart.  With quick contrition she whispered,

“There, never mind, David.  I oughtn’t to have spoken to you so.  You know your duty best.  Let’s go in.”

“Wait.”  His voice was imploring.

“Mary, is it true that Mollie won’t come out because of me?  Am I standing in my child’s light?”

“I—­don’t—­know.  I guess not.  Mollie’s just a foolish young girl yet.  Never mind—­come in.”

He followed her dejectedly in, and up the aisle to their pew in the center of the church.  The building was warm and crowded.  The pastor was reading the Bible lesson for the evening.  In the choir, behind him, David Bell saw Mollie’s girlish face, tinged with a troubled seriousness.  His own wind-ruddy face and bushy gray eyebrows worked convulsively with his inward throes.  A sigh that was almost a groan burst from him.

“I’ll have to do it,” he said to himself in agony.

When several more hymns had been sung, and late arrivals began to pack the aisles, the evangelist arose.  His style for the evening was the tender, the pleading, the solemn.  He modulated his tones to marvelous sweetness, and sent them thrillingly over the breathless pews, entangling the hearts and souls of his listeners in a mesh of subtle emotion.  Many of the women began to cry softly.  Fervent amens broke from some of the members.  When the evangelist sat down, after a closing appeal which, in its way, was a masterpiece, an audible sigh of relieved tension passed like a wave over the audience.

After prayer the pastor made the usual request that, if any of those present wished to come out on the side of Christ, they would signify the wish by rising for a moment in their places.  After a brief interval, a pale boy under the gallery rose, followed by an old man at the top of the church.  A frightened, sweet-faced child of twelve got tremblingly upon her feet, and a dramatic thrill passed over the congregation when her mother suddenly stood up beside her.  The evangelist’s “Thank God” was hearty and insistent.