orporations, especially the railroads. The minute his time was up a
big, brawny fellow, who said he was a metal worker by trade, claimed
the floor and declared that the remedy for the social wrongs was
Trades Unionism. This, he said, would bring on the millennium for
labor more surely than anything else. The next man endeavored to
give some reasons why so many persons were out of employment, and
condemned inventions as works of the devil. He was loudly applauded
by the rest.

Finally the Bishop called time on the "free for all," and asked
Rachel to sing.

Rachel Winslow had grown into a very strong, healthful, humble
Christian during that wonderful year in Raymond dating from the
Sunday when she first took the pledge to do as Jesus would do, and
her great talent for song had been fully consecrated to the service
of the Master. When she began to sing tonight at this Settlement
meeting, she had never prayed more deeply for results to come from
her voice, the voice which she now regarded as the Master's, to be
used for Him.

Certainly her prayer was being answered as she sang. She had chosen
the words,

"Hark! The voice of Jesus calling, Follow me, follow me!"

Again Henry Maxwell, sitting there, was reminded of his first night
at the Rectangle in the tent when Rachel sang the people into quiet.
The effect was the same here. What wonderful power a good voice
consecrated to the Master's service always is! Rachel's great
natural ability would have made her one of the foremost opera
singers of the age. Surely this audience had never heard such a
melody. How could it? The men who had drifted in from the street sat
entranced by a voice which "back in the world," as the Bishop said,
never could be heard by the common people because the owner of it
would charge two or three dollars for the privilege. The song poured
out through the hall as free and glad as if it were a foretaste of
salvation itself. Carlsen, with his great, black-bearded face
uplifted, absorbed the music with the deep love of it peculiar to
his nationality, and a tear ran over his cheek and glistened in his
beard as his face softened and became almost noble in its aspect.
The man out of work who had wanted to know what Jesus would do in
his place sat with one grimy hand on the back of the bench in front
of him, with his mouth partly open, his great tragedy for the moment
forgotten. The song, while it lasted, was food and work and warmth
and union with his