hoving
the heavy benches, dropping song-books. They greeted the snow-covered
trio with a royal roar, and a few minutes later were singing, "Yes,
we'll gather at the river," at the tops of their discordant voices.
Carol sat at the wheezy organ, painfully pounding out the rhythmic
notes,--no musician she, but willing to do anything in a pinch. And
although at the pretty little church up in the Heights she never
attempted to lift her voice in song, down at the mission she felt
herself right in her element and sang with gay good-will, happy in the
knowledge that she came as near holding to the tune as half the others.

Most of the evening was spent in song, David standing in the narrow
doorway between the two rooms, nodding this way, nodding that, in a
futile effort to keep a semblance of time among the boisterous
worshipers. A short reading from the Bible, a very brief prayer, a
short, conversational story-talk from David, and the meeting broke up
in wild clamor.

Then back through the driving snow they made their way, considering the
evening well worth all the exertion it had required.

Once inside the cozy manse, David and Carol hastily changed into warm
dressing-gowns and slippers and lounged lazily before the big
fireplace, sipping hot coffee, and talking, always talking of the
work,--what must be done to-morrow, what could be arranged for Sunday,
the young people's meeting, the primary department, the mission study
class.

And Carol brought out the big bottle and administered the designated
teaspoonful.

"For you must quit coughing, David," she said. "You ruined two good
points last Sunday by clearing your throat in the middle of a phrase.
And it isn't so easy making points as that."

"Aren't you tired of hearing me preach, Carol? We've been married a
whole year now. Aren't you finding my sermons monotonous?"

"David," she said earnestly, resting her head against his shoulder,
partly for weariness, partly for the pleasure of feeling the rise and
fall of his breast,--"when you go up into the pulpit you look so white
and good, like an apostle or a good angel, it almost frightens me. I
think, 'Oh, no, he isn't my husband, not really,--he is just a good
angel God sent to keep me out of mischief.' And while you are
preaching I never think, 'He is mine.' I always think, 'He is God's.'"

Tears came into her eyes as she spoke, and David drew her close in his
arms.

"Do you, sweetheart? It seems a terribl