egan to pray. Simultaneously with hers a masculine voice broke
through the air mingling with the weak petition of the woman. Frederick
Graves lifted his head quickly--the trend of war cutting through his
mind like a knife. It had evidently been planned before the meeting just
how severely the women were to be dealt with, for Frederick noted that
his father's eyes did not raise from his reverent position at the
unusual happening. As the man's voice grew louder, importunately seeking
guidance in this unhappy church affair, the woman closed her lips and
fell backward upon the seat crying weakly. The masculine voice rose
higher and clearer and finished the petition with ringing clarity.
Another embarrassing silence out of which came scarcely a breath.
Augusta Hall caught a glimpse of the piercing blue eyes peering from
under the shaggy brows of Bill Hopkins. The deacon was watching her, and
Augusta knew that he exulted as one woman after another was driven to
her chair by the masculine voice of her shouting opponent.

So far the men held the day. This was demonstrated to Augusta Hall and
Bill Hopkins by the undertoned sobs that continually emerged from behind
the numerous white handkerchiefs. So dense was the quietude of the
painful meeting that Frederick Graves could plainly hear the thumping of
his own heart. Suddenly Augusta with a slight cough and a rustle of her
fine skirts rose to her feet. She started to speak reverently in a low
tone. It was the usual petition that blessing should descend upon the
missions, the sewing circle and the children's work--and here her voice
wavered a little, for a man's bass voice joined in with her own. It was
that of the deacon who carried the offering plate each Sunday morning,
opposite her husband. On and on both man and woman shouted their words
with strength and rapidity upon their hearers' ears. The Deacon's voice
lifted and fell with the power of an orator. Augusta strained forth her
tones high and clear. Minute after minute until fifteen had passed was
the oratorical word display of each pitted against the other.

Dominie Graves' fingers were twitching nervously beside his well-shaped
nose. Bill Hopkins still twiddling his wart had drawn himself to a
straighter position, and was listening with all intentness. The pallor
of Deacon Hall's face deepened as Augusta talked on and on until all
thought of prayer had left her mind, and her words shaped themselves
into a discourse. She wa