Surely, dress has absolutely nothing to do with devotion.  And the impertinent patronage of worshippers in “fustian” is at least as offensive as the older-fashioned vulgarity of pride in congregations who “come in their own carriages.”  And I do protest against the flippant inference that good clothes for the body must lower the assumptions of the spirit, or make repentance insincere; which I no more believe than that the worship of a clean Christian is less acceptable than that of a brother who cannot afford or does not value the use of soap.

I am perhaps anxious to defend this congregation, on which Jan stumbled in the pale light of early morning in the city, from any imputation on the sincerity of its worship, because it was mostly very comfortably clad.  The men were chiefly business men, with a good deal of the obnoxious “broadcloth” about them, and with well-brushed hats beneath their seats.  One of the stoutest and most comfortable-looking, with an intelligent face and a fair clean complexion which spoke of good food, stood near the door.  He wore a new great-coat with a velvet collar, but his gray eyes (they had seen middle age, and did not shine with any flash of youthful enthusiasm) were fixed upon the window, and he sang very heartily, and by heart, —

     “Other Refuge have I none! 
      Hangs my helpless soul on Thee;
      Leave, ah! leave me not alone,
      Still support and comfort me.”

The tears flowed down Jan’s cheeks.  It had been a favorite hymn of his foster-mother, and he had often sung it to her.  Master Swift used to “give the note,” and then sink himself into the bass part, and these quaint duets had been common at the mill.  How delightful such simple pleasures seem to those who look back on them from the dark places of the earth, full of misery and wickedness!

In spite of his tears, Jan was fain to join as the hymn went on, and he sang like a bird, —

     “All my trust on Thee is stayed,
      All my help from Thee I bring;
      Cover my defenceless head
      With the shadow of Thy wing.”

It was the hymn after the third collect, and when it was ended the comfortable-looking gentleman motioned Jan into a seat, and he knelt down.

When the service was over, the same gentleman took him by the arm, and asked, “What’s the matter with you, my boy?”

A rapid survey of his woes led Jan to reply, “I’ve no home, sir.”

The congregation had dispersed quickly, for the men were going to business.

This gentleman walked fast, and he hurried Jan along with him.

“Who are your parents?” he asked.  The service had recalled Jan’s highest associations, and he was anxious to tell the strict truth.

“I don’t rightly know, sir,” said he.

“Are you hungry?”

“Yes, sir,” sobbed poor Jan.

They were stopping before a large house, and the gentleman said, “Look here, my boy.  If you had a good home, and good food, and clothes, would you work?  Would you try to be a good lad, and learn an honest trade?”