ittle, weather-beaten
church stood in its groving of pines, the same yesterday, to-day and for
ever. Better still, the congregation, the small Wednesday-night
gathering at least, held the familiar faces of the country folk. The
minister was a young missionary, zealously earnest, and lacking as yet
the quality of hardness and doctrinal precision which had been the boy's
daily bread and meat at the sectarian school. What wonder, then, that
when the call for testimony was made, the old pounding and
heart-hammering set in, and duty, _duty_, duty, wrote itself in
flaming letters on the dingy walls?

Tom set his teeth and swallowed hard, and let a dozen of the others rise
and speak and sit again. He could feel the beating of his mother's
heart, and he knew she was praying silently for him, praying that he
would not deny his Master. For her sake, then ... but not yet; there was
still time enough--after the next hymn--after the next testimony--when
the minister should give another invitation. He was chained to the bench
and could not rise; his tongue clave to the roof of his mouth and his
lips were like dry leaves. The silences grew longer; all, or nearly all,
had spoken. He was stifling.

"_Whosoever therefore shall confess me before men, him will I confess
also before my Father which is in heaven. But whosoever shall deny me
before men, him will I also deny before my Father which is in heaven._"
It was the solemn voice of the young minister, and Tom staggered to his
feet with the lamps whirling in giddy circles.

"I feel to say that the Lord is precious to my soul to-night. Pray for
me, that I may ever be found faithful."

He struggled through the words of the familiar form gaspingly and sat
down. A burst of triumphant song arose,

"O happy day, that fixed my choice
On Thee, my Saviour and my God!"

and the ecstatic aftermath came. Truly, it was better to be a doorkeeper
in the house of God than to dwell in the tents of wickedness. What bliss
was there to be compared with this heart-melting, soul-lifting blessing
for duty done?

It went with him a good part of the way home, and Martha Gordon
respected his silence, knowing well what heights and depths were
engulfing the young spirit.

But afterward--alas and alas! that there should always be an
"afterward"! When Tom had kissed his mother good night and was alone in
his upper room, the reaction set in. What had he done? Were the words
the out