were all sallow, stolid,
sullen, old beyond their years. Even the babies were sallow and stolid
and old. Many of the men were muscular and well-grown, but with a lanky,
stooping height that did not suggest health. Inflamed eyes were common
in that congregation, hollow cheeks flushed with the sign there is no
mistaking, faces vacuous and dull-eyed and foolishly a-grin.

"Ugh! Think of the germs," he said unhappily, under his breath. "Your
friend the peddler is making signs at you."

Jacqueline, obedient to the signal, stopped to the edge of the platform
and began to sing the first hymn that came to her mind. She found that
she was singing alone. Channing did not know the air. She glanced
imploringly at Philip, but he did not see her. He was studying his
congregation. They sat in solemn silence, staring at Jacqueline.

At first her voice shook a little with self-consciousness, but she threw
her head up gallantly, and went on, verse after verse. At the end she
was singing as confidently as if Jemima and the little organ and the
faithful choir of Storm church were behind her. Her voice died away in
the final "Amen," and she went to her seat, still amid dead silence.

"Why didn't you help me out?" she whispered reproachfully to Philip.

"It wasn't necessary. Look at them!"

Then she saw that the stupidity, the grimness of all those watching
faces was gone as if by magic. They had become bright, eager, almost
tremulous with pleasure. The girl was touched. She understood why the
peddler had so insisted upon Philip's ability to start a hymn. Music,
such crude and simple music as came their way, meant to these starved
natures all that they knew of beauty, of higher things, perhaps of
religion.

In the hush that followed, Philip began: "The Lord is in His holy
temple. Let all the earth keep silence before Him."

It was a strange setting for the stately Episcopal service, simplified
as Philip made it for the occasion; a bare, log-walled room, lit by
smelling kerosene lamps, without altar, candles or cross, without
religious symbol of any sort. Only Jacqueline followed the service,
kneeling where the congregation should have knelt, making the responses
in her clear young voice, joining him in the prayers. But Philip was
aware of no incongruity. He gave them what he had to give, and felt none
the less a priest because of his flannel shirt and his shabby
riding-trousers. Cathedral or log-cabin, it was all one to him. He knew