ersoll. And there in that dim little room, with two
dozen poorly clad and simple fisher-folk singing gospel hymns to the
accompaniment of a wheezy cottage organ, he realized that while atheism
and doubt might appeal to his intellect, it did not satisfy his heart,
and that while materialism might be a good enough theory to live by, it
was a cheerless belief to die by.

And then too, as he stole covert looks at the fair girl who stood by his
side, joining her sweet voice in "Hold the Fort," "Pull for the Shore,"
"Gathering at the River," and all the other time-worn gospel songs,
older than he was, into his heart came the first feeling, also, that she
was the one woman he had ever met whose gentle, unaffected goodness and
purity of thought was worthy of any man's devotion. But words are given
us to conceal as well as to reveal our feelings, and when the unique
little prayer-meeting was concluded with an oddly spoken benediction by
Deacon Oaks, and Albert and Telly were on their way back to the point,
his first words bore no disclosure of his feelings.

"Who was the poor old lady that prayed so fervently?" he asked; "I have
never heard anything like it since I was a boy."

"Oh, that's the Widow Leach," Telly responded; "she always acts that way
and feels so too, I guess. She is an object of pity here, and very poor.
She has no relation living that she knows of, lives alone in a small
house she owns, and works on the fish racks summers, and winters has to
be helped. Her husband and two sons were lost at sea many years ago, and
father says religion is all the consolation she has left."

"Does she always pray as fervently as she did to-night?" was Albert's
next query.

"Oh, yes, that's her way," was the answer; "father says she is a little
cracked about such matters. He pities her, though, and helps her a good
deal, and so does 'most every one else here who can. She needs it." Then
after a pause she added, "How did you enjoy the meeting, Mr. Page?"

"Well," replied Albert slowly, and mentally contrasting it with many
Sunday services when he had occupied a pew with the Nasons at their
fashionable church in Boston, "it has been an experience I shall not
soon forget. In one way it has been a pleasure, for it has taken me back
to my young days." Then he added a little sadly, "It has also been a
pain, for it recalled my mother and how she used to pray that I might
grow to be a good man."

"You are not a bad man, are you?" re