e amount of
study given to every address. "I wish you could see how uncle Archie
manages his sermons."

"He has not the sort of people I have," John said, with kindly excuse.
"Yet think of the importance of speaking to any one in Christ's name! We
preach for eternity, Helen,--for eternity."

She looked at him gravely. "John," she answered, "you take these things
too much to heart. It is not wise, dear."

He hesitated, and then said gently, "These are the only things to take to
heart. We only live to prepare for that other life. Can we be too earnest
dear, when eternity hangs upon the use we make of time? That thought is a
continual spur to make me eager for my duty to my people."

"Oh, I know it," Helen responded, laying her head upon his shoulder; "but
don't work too hard."

He put his arms about her, and the impulse which had been strong a moment
before to speak to her of her own soul was forgotten.

These prayer-meetings were trials to Helen Ward. She missed the stately
Liturgy of her own church. "I don't like to hear Elder Dean give the
Almighty so much miscellaneous information," she said, half laughing, yet
quite in earnest. But she always went, for at least there was the
pleasure of walking home with John. Beside, practice had made it possible
for her to hear without heeding, and in that way she escaped a great deal
of annoyance.

This especial Wednesday evening, however, she had not been able to close
her ears to all that was said. She had grown restless, and looked about
the narrow whitewashed room where the lecture was given, and longed for
the reverence of the starlit silence outside.

John had begun the meeting by a short prayer, simple and direct as a
child's request to his father, and after a hymn he said a few words on
the text he had chosen. Then the meeting was open, and to some of the
things said, Helen listened with indignant disapproval. As they walked
home, rejoicing in the fresh cold air and the sound of their quick
footsteps on the frosty ground, she made up her mind what she meant to
do, but she did not speak of it until they were by their own fireside.

The room was full of soft half-darkness; shadows leaped out of the
corners, and chased the gleams of firelight; the tall clock ticked slowly
in the corner, and on the hearts of these two fell that content with life
and each other which is best expressed by silence.

John sat at his wife's feet; his tired head was upon her knee, and he