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“Wasn’t it great, Mr. Tomlinson?” said Sam, enthusiastically. “Great–Mr. Fraser?” He looked, smiling, into first one austere face and then the other. Then he gazed straight ahead of him, up at Elder Blake. “Going up to tell him so? So am I!” He pressed the two arms, continuing in his friendly way to retain his hold on both. “In all the years I’ve gone to church, I’ve never heard preaching like that. It warmed up my heart till I thought it would burst–and it made me want to go to work.”

Almost without their own volition Tomlinson and Fraser found themselves proceeding toward the pulpit–yet Sam’s hands did not seem to be exerting any force. The force came from his own vigorous personality, which was one that invariably inspired confidence. If Burnett was going up to speak to the Elder, it seemed only proper that they, the leading men of the church, should go too.

William Sewall, having assured himself that his venerable associate was not suffering from a more than natural exhaustion after his supreme effort, stood still by his side, looking out over the congregation. He now observed an interesting trio approaching the platform, composed of his valued friend, Samuel Burnett–his fine face alight with his purpose–and two gray-bearded men of somewhat unpromising exterior, but plainly of prominence in the church, by the indefinable look of them. He watched the three climb the pulpit stairs, and come up to the figure in the chair–Sam, with tact, falling behind.

“You did well, Elder–you did well,” said George Tomlinson, struggling to express himself, and finding only this time-worn phrase. He stood awkwardly on one foot, before Ebenezer Blake, like an embarrassed schoolboy, but his tone was sincere–and a trifle husky, on account of the untimely reappearance of the frog in his throat.

Elder Blake looked up–and William Sewall thought he had never seen a sweeter smile on a human face, young or old. “You are kind to come and tell me so, George,” said he. “I had thought never to preach again. It did me good.”

“It did us good, sir,” said Sam Burnett. He had waited an instant for Fraser to speak, but saw that the cold in the head was in the ascendancy again. “It did me so much good that I can hardly wait till I get back to town to hunt up a man I know, and tell him I think he was in the right in a little disagreement we had a good while ago. I’ve always been positive he was wrong. I suppose the facts in the case haven’t changed–” he smiled into the dim blue eyes– “but somehow I seem to see them differently. It doesn’t look to me worth while to let them stand between us any longer.”

“Ah, it’s not worth while,” agreed the old man quickly. “It’s not worth while for any of us to be hard on one another, no matter what the facts. Life is pretty difficult, at its best–we can’t afford to make it more difficult for any human soul. Go back to town and make it right with your friend, Mr. Burnett. I take it he was your friend, or you wouldn’t think of him to-night.”

“Was–and is!” declared Sam, with conviction. “He’s got to be, whether he wants to or not. But he’ll want to–I know that well enough. We’ve been friends from boyhood–we’d just forgotten it, that’s all.”

There was a little pause. The old man sat with his white head leaning against the high back of his chair, his face upturned, his eyes–with an appeal in them–resting first upon the face of Asa Fraser, then upon that of George Tomlinson. With a common impulse, William Sewall and Samuel Burnett moved aside together, turning their backs upon the three.

Asa Fraser lifted his eyes and met those of George Tomlinson. With a palpable effort–for he was a man of few words–he spoke.

“George,” said he, “I guess I made a mistake, thinking as I did.”