ead and regenerate the church,"
he said.

The enthusiasm of the neighborhood took flame. It should be done. A
meeting was called. Everybody subscribed money or work. It was a
generous outpouring of love and faith.

It was Herman also who counseled secrecy. "It would be a nice thing to
surprise him," he said. "We'll agree to keep the scheme from him at
home, if you don't give it away."

They set to work like bees. The women came down one day and took
possession with brooms and mops and soap, and while the carpenters
repaired the windows they fell savagely upon the grime of the seats and
floors. The walls of the church echoed with woman's gossip and girlish
laughter. Everything was scoured, from the door-hinges to the altar
rails. New doors were hung and a new stove secured, and then came the
painters to put a new coat of paint on the inside. The cold weather
forbade repainting the outside.

The sheds were rebuilt by men whose hearts glowed with old-time fire. It
was like pioneer days, when "barn-raising" and "bees" made life worth
while in a wild, stern land. It was a beautiful time. The old men were
moved to tears, and the younger rough men shouted cheery, boisterous
cries to hide their own deep emotion. Hand met hand in heartiness never
shown before. Neighbors frequented each other's homes, and the old times
of visiting and brotherly love came back upon them. Nothing marred the
perfect beauty of their revival--save the fear of its evanescence. It
seemed too good to last.

Meanwhile love of another and merrier sort went on. The young men and
maidens turned prayer meeting into trysts, and scrubbing bees into
festivals. They rode from house to house under glittering stars, over
sparkling snows, singing:

"Hallelujah! 'tis done:
I believe on the Son;
I am saved by the blood
Of the Crucified One."

And their rejoicing chorus was timed to the clash of bells on swift
young horses. Who shall say they did not right? Did the Galilean forbid
love and joy?

No matter. God's stars, the mysterious night, the bells, the watchful
bay of dogs, the sting of snow, the croon of loving voices, the clasp
of tender arms, the touch of parting lips--these things, these things
outweigh death and hell, and all that makes the criminal tremble. Being
saved, they must of surety rejoice.

And through it all Wallace crawled slowly back to life and strength. He
ate of Mother Allen's chicken-broth and of toast from Mattie'