eside the library table with her embroidery while
her father read aloud.

Mrs. Gray managed to utter an aside:

"I had forgotten, child, that you were not going to the rehearsal. How
strange it seems!"

Winifred drifted away again, unable to listen to what her father was
reading. Hubert was nowhere to be found. She went at last to her own
room and did the best thing possible. She poured out her heart before
God, telling Him with the simplicity that had characterized her first
coming to Him her perplexity and unhappiness.

"I am miserable," she said to Him. "I don't know whether I have done
right or not, and I miss the music so much. Please let me know if it
is right to give it up? I do wish to worship Thee."

No flood of revelation poured at once upon her, but she took her Bible
and read. She had learned no method of study, but read where she
chanced to open. The portion did not say anything about choirs or
rehearsals, but it led her mind away and soothed her. And its
atmosphere was so pure and fragrant that when the debated thing rose
again it was instantly judged by contrast. Very different was the
spiritual air of her choir experience, as in imagination she stepped
back into it; and the fellowship of George Frothingham, Mr. Mercer, and
the drink-sodden organist, did not seem like the communion of the
saints as she found it in the Acts of the Apostles.

With the vanishing of her doubts as to the wisdom of her course came
back the gentle peace that she had known for five blessed days, and its
price was above all musical delights.

CHAPTER VII

A NEW SUNDAY

Sunday morning found four people seated in the comfortable pew which
the iron merchant was able to pay for. And, by the way, what a
comfortable thing is wealth in the various ramifications of life, even
to one's church relationships! No fear of the unwelcome bidding, "Sit
thou here under my footstool"--in the undesirable front seats where
one's neck must be craned backward to admit of seeing the minister; nor
of being relegated to the back pews when ears have become a little dull
with age. How thankful should one be whose lot in life is thus
favorably cast! But we have not admitted to our consciousness a
thankfulness that the Epistle of James is not often read; or, if read,
too literally dwelt upon. We have found a grateful oil to pour upon
any rising waters of ill conscience in reflecting upon the beneficent
adjustment of social rel