out of my abundance, to the Lord.  That was a lie.  Mrs. Lynde thought I was a generous man, and I felt ashamed to look her in the face.  But I’d done what I could to right the wrong, and I thought it would be all right.  But it wasn’t.  I’ve never known a minute’s peace of mind or conscience since.  I tried to cheat the Lord, and then tried to patch it up by doing something that redounded to my worldly credit.  When these meetings begun, and everybody expected me to testify, I couldn’t do it.  It would have seemed like blasphemy.  And I couldn’t endure the thought of telling what I’d done, either.  I argued it all out a thousand times that I hadn’t done any real harm after all, but it was no use.  I’ve been so wrapped up in my own brooding and misery that I didn’t realize I was inflicting suffering on those dear to me by my conduct, and, maybe, holding some of them back from the paths of salvation.  But my eyes have been opened to this to-night, and the Lord has given me strength to confess my sin and glorify His holy name.”

The broken tones ceased, and David Bell sat down, wiping the great drops of perspiration from his brow.  To a man of his training, and cast of thought, no ordeal could be more terrible than that through which he had just passed.  But underneath the turmoil of his emotion he felt a great calm and peace, threaded with the exultation of a hard-won spiritual victory.

Over the church was a solemn hush.  The evangelist’s “amen” was not spoken with his usual unctuous fervor, but very gently and reverently.  In spite of his coarse fiber, he could appreciate the nobility behind such a confession as this, and the deeps of stern suffering it sounded.

Before the last prayer the pastor paused and looked around.

“Is there yet one,” he asked gently, “who wishes to be especially remembered in our concluding prayer?”

For a moment nobody moved.  Then Mollie Bell stood up in the choir seat, and, down by the stove, Eben, his flushed, boyish face held high, rose sturdily to his feet in the midst of his companions.

“Thank God,” whispered Mary Bell.

“Amen,” said her husband huskily.

“Let us pray,” said Mr. Bentley.

XIV.  ONLY A COMMON FELLOW

On my dearie’s wedding morning I wakened early and went to her room.  Long and long ago she had made me promise that I would be the one to wake her on the morning of her wedding day.

“You were the first to take me in your arms when I came into the world, Aunt Rachel,” she had said, “and I want you to be the first to greet me on that wonderful day.”

But that was long ago, and now my heart foreboded that there would be no need of wakening her.  And there was not.  She was lying there awake, very quiet, with her hand under her cheek, and her big blue eyes fixed on the window, through which a pale, dull light was creeping in—­a joyless light it was, and enough to make a body shiver.  I felt more like weeping than rejoicing, and my heart took to aching when I saw her there so white and patient, more like a girl who was waiting for a winding-sheet than for a bridal veil.  But she smiled brave-like, when I sat down on her bed and took her hand.