eat, so they
could stay all day. It was Communion Sunday. The neat white cloth
which covered the table in front of the pulpit told the story as they
pushed their way in. The congregation was singing, "Safely through
another week, God has brought us on our way," and Job thought it was a
long, long week since he had sat in the old church and heard that
hymn. How natural it looked! The bare white walls, with here and there
a crack which had carved a not inartistic line up the sides. The stiff
wooden pulpit, almost hid to-day under the June roses. The same
preacher who had said that Christmas night, "Wilt thou be baptized in
this faith?" The little organ in the corner. The old familiar faces
looking up from the benches, and some new ones. There had been a
revival that winter in the church, and now Job could see its results.
The whole congregation was sprinkled with faces he used to see in the
saloons and on the streets, but had never hoped to see in church. Aye,
and there were some faces missing. Where was old Grandpa Reynolds, who
at that long-ago camp-meeting sang "Palms of victory, crowns of glory
I shall wear"? A strange feeling came over Job as he remembered that
he had gone Home to wear the crown of a sainted life.

"Some of the host have crossed the flood,
And some are crossing over."

The choir was singing the words. Job thought again of the aged saint.
He thought of Yankee Sam and that wild night when he died; of Tim,
poor Irish Tim; and then of that sweet face in the plain wooden casket
in the strange California city--his boyhood's idol--and the tears
started to his eyes.

"Unto you therefore which believe, He is precious." That was the text.
The preacher was beginning the sermon, and Job called back his
thoughts and leaned forward to listen.

"I think the tears were streaming down Peter's face when he uttered
these words. The memories of a lifetime crowded upon him. He was a
young man back by the Lake of Gennesaret, and looked up to see
Andrew's excited face and hear him say, 'Peter, brother, we have found
the great man; we have found the Messiah.' He was by those same waters
mending the nets, ready to push out for the day's toil, and lo! he
heard a voice--oh, how wonderful it was!--there was authority in it,
soul in it: 'Peter, come follow me,' and he dropped the nets, and went
out to life's sea to fish for men. Ah, yes, I think as Peter wrote
these words he remembered his solemn vows of loyalty, hi