s,"
with Tennyson as the first subject.

"I am not hungering for a literary lecture," said Hubert. "I should
like to hear something clearly about Christ."

"We might go somewhere else," said Winifred, giving the suggestion
which he wished.

They looked at the paper again to see the advertised subjects at
various churches. They found some sensational, that might bear
reference to the Lord or might not; some very promising, but at
churches too far away; and finally they decided upon a little church in
a street near them, whose modest announcement told simply of "preaching
at 7:30."

It was with something of a spirit of adventure and an almost troubled
conscience that Winifred deserted her usual place of attendance. They
turned down a less fashionable street than their own and came to the
church, a small brick structure, very fresh and new looking. A few
young people still lingered about the door, loath to go in from the
summer twilight. Within the newness rivaled that without. The pew
backs shone with varnish, and the aisles glowed with fresh, red carpet.
The simple pulpit was carefully polished and a bright bookmark hung
from the gilt-edged leaves of the Bible. The choir occupied a platform
at the right of the minister, facing the congregation, and each member
held the visitors in view as they were shown to a seat. The evening
congregation was scattering, so their advent was the more noticeable.
They were early also, which gave the young girl organist some time to
look at them fixedly across the back of the cabinet organ at which she
was seated, before beginning her voluntary. Then she played "Alice,
Where Art Thou?" with loud and ill-assorted stops. Had Winifred been
less bent on sincere worship, or their quest for Christ-preaching been
less serious, she would have found it difficult to keep from laughing
with the sudden sense of humor which assailed her.

The service was nearly as elaborate as the statelier neighbor-church
could boast. The choir rendered an anthem in process of time, and
Winifred studied their faces earnestly, wondering if any thought of
reality was in their hearts as they sang. They were nearly all young,
with thoughtless, unspiritual faces, but they sang the sentiments of
discipline and sorrow. There was no artistic value in their singing,
and Winifred thought with a sigh, "It does not help any that the music
should be poor. They have no more heart in it than had we with our
trai