settlers of Harvey--rather
conspicuously. She had the gratification of noting that South Harvey saw
the nobility nod back. With the South Harvey people came Amos Adams in
his rough gray clothes and rough gray beard. Jasper Adams, in the
highest possible collar, and in the gayest possible shell-pink necktie
and under the extremest clothes that it might be possible for the
superintendent of a Sunday School to wear, shared a hymnal, when the
congregation rose to sing, with the youngest Miss Morton. There were
those who thought the singing was merely a duet between young Mr. Adams
and the youngest Miss Morton--so much feeling did they put into the
music. Mr. Brotherton was so impressed, that he marked young Adams for a
tryout at the next funeral where there was a bass voice needed, making
the mental reservation that no one needed to look at the pimples of a
boy who could sing like that.

When the congregation sat down after the first hymn John Dexter formally
presented Grant Adams to the congregation. The young man rose, walked to
the chancel rail and stood for a moment facing his audience without
speaking. The congregation saw a tall, strong featured, uncouth man with
large nose and a big mouth--clearly masculine and not finely chiselled.
In these features there was something almost coarse and earthy; but in
the man's eyes and forehead, there lurked the haunting, fleeting shadow
of the eternal feminine in his soul. His eyes were deep and blue and
tender, and in repose always seemed about to smile, while his forehead,
high and broad, topped by a shock of red hair, gave him a kind of
intellectual charity that made his whole countenance shine with
kindness. Yet his clothes belied the promise of his brow. They were
ill-fitting, with an air of Sunday-bestness that gave him an incongruous
scarecrow effect. It was easy to see why Market Street was beginning to
call him that "Mad Adams." As he lifted his glance from the floor, his
eyes met Laura Van Dorn's, then flitted away quickly, and the smile she
should have had for her own, he gave to his audience. He began speaking
with his arms behind him to hide the crippled arm which was tipped with
a gloved iron claw. His voice was low and gentle, yet his hearers felt
its strength in reserve.

"I suppose," he began slowly, "every man has his job in the world, and I
presume my job seems rather an unnecessary one to some of my friends,
and I can hardly blame them. For the assumption of