were carrying on these unselfish activities. He found a college graduate like himself, a man of intellectual and moral force who had chosen this as his life work. A woman of culture and wealth whose white hair and saintly face was a benediction had been coming for years down to one of the missions a night or two each week and spending many of her days in the homes of poverty and in places. of shame. The people loved and revered her. As he met these illustrations of cultured and unselfish womanhood, he found himself contrasting them with the selfishness of Kate. "Yes, there is a wide difference," he thought one day. "I have felt for a long time that she is not the type of woman but it appears to me clearer than ever now. Still, if I should see her, would her subtle power over me revive the old passion with force." He drew a long breath as though glad he was gaining freedom but sighed in the next breath as though realizing he was yet a slave. One night he was seated in the mission room which was crowded with degraded men and women and with the workers who themselves had been won to trust and virtue. The leader arose at the hour of beginning and said: "Eight years ago, many of you know that I was one of the worst men in this city. Women and children and many men were afraid of me. One night I had kicked my wife and children out into the winter's storm, and was reeling along the street with a Bible-the only thing we had left of any value-to trade it for one more drink. I heard music; I pushed open the door into this room and asked, 'How much for coming in here?' 'Nothing, my friend,' said a kind voice, and before I left Jack Connor was a saved man. Here's my wife and children well clothed and fed, and you can tell by their faces, whether they are happy." Simply and reverently the man had told his story but the charm of the Saviour of men was in it all. So the meeting went on with these crude but mighty testimonies, with prayers and songs, and with growing interest. Toward the close the leader arose and announced "Miss Ethel Johnston has come down again to sing to us rough folks. Every time she comes we feel as if an angel had visited us and sung the songs of heaven." A young woman arose in the rear of the room and came forward. As Richard saw her, the room seemed whirling. There was the face of the gipsy girl and the one that looked up to him on Commencement day, except developed by the years that had passed, and the face of Mrs. Warren, except younger and fuller. With great effort he controlled himself. Soon her voice held them captive. Her face was illumined by the meaning of what she sang. Each felt that the singer and the song were both God's messenger. Strong men wept. Women whose ways got hold on hell seemed to feel the force of divine things and to catch a glimpse of heaven again. Little children who could not know the force of the words she sang felt with awe the godlikeness of the singer. The world of shame and dullness, of passion and indifference had suddenly become to that gathered company God's world of purity and trust and hope. In the midst of the song the singer's eyes fell upon Richard. Her face grew pale; her hand clutched her music tightly; her voice hesitated an instant, though none but him noticed it; and then with a power indescribable she finished the song. Again she sang, this time, "Home, Sweet Home," and men and women came that night in numbers to the altar. |