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Suddenly the sermon ended. As preachers of a later day have learned the art of stopping abruptly with a striking climax, so this preacher from an earlier generation, his message delivered, ceased to speak. He left his hearers breathless. But after a moment’s pause, during which the silence was a thing to be felt, the voice spoke again. It no longer rang–it sank into a low pleading, in words out of the Book upon which the clasped old hands rested:

“Now, therefore, O our God, hear the prayer of Thy servant and his supplications, and cause Thy face to shine upon Thy sanctuary that is desolate, for the Lord’s sake.”

IX

Up in the choir-loft, chokily Guy whispered to Margaret, “Can’t we end with ‘Holy Night,’ again? Nothing else seems to fit, after that.”

She nodded, her eyes wet. It had not been thought best to ask the congregation to sing. There was no knowing whether anybody would sing if they were asked. Now, it seemed fortunate that it had been so arranged, for somehow the congregation did not look exactly as if it could sing. Certainly not George Tomlinson, for he had a large frog in his throat. Not Asa Fraser, for he had a furious cold in his head. Not Maria Hill, for though she hunted vigorously, high and low, for her handkerchief, she was unable to locate it, and the front of her best black silk was rapidly becoming shiny in spots–a fact calculated to upset anybody’s singing. Not even Miss Jane Pollock, for though no tears bedewed her bright black eyes, there was a peculiar heaving quality in her breathing, which suggested an impediment of some sort not to be readily overcome. And it may be safely said that there was not a baker’s dozen of people left in the church who could have carried through the most familiar hymn without breaking down.

So the four in the organ loft sang “Holy Night” again. They could not have done a better thing. It is a holy night, indeed, when a messenger from heaven comes down to this world of ours, though he take the form of an old, old man with a peaceful face–but with eyes which can flash once more with a light which is not of earth, and with lips upon which, for one last mighty effort, has been laid a coal from off the altar of the great High Priest.

“Silent Night! Holy night!
Darkness flies, all is light!
Shepherds hear the angels sing–
Hallelujah! hail the king!
Jesus Christ is here!”

X

George Tomlinson came heavily out of his pew. He had at last succeeded in getting rid of the frog in his throat–or thought he had. It had occurred to him that perhaps he ought to go up and speak to Elder Blake–now sitting quietly in his chair, with William Sewall bending over him–though he didn’t know exactly what to say that would seem adequate to the occasion.

At the same moment, Asa Fraser, still struggling with the cold in his head, emerged from his pew, directly opposite. The two men did not look at each other. But as they had been accustomed to allow their meeting glances to clash with the cutting quality of implacable resentment, this dropping of the eyes on the part of each might have been interpreted to register a distinct advance toward peace.

As each stood momentarily at the opening of his pew, neither quite determined whether to turn his face pulpit-ward or door-ward, Samuel Burnett, coming eagerly up to them from the door-ward side, laid a friendly hand on either black-clad arm. Whether Sam was inspired by Heaven, or only by his own strong common-sense and knowledge of men, will never be known. But he had been a popular man in North Estabrook, ever since he had first begun to come there to see Nancy Fernald, and both Tomlinson and Fraser heartily liked and respected him–a fact he understood and was counting on now.