never shown before. Neighbors
frequented one another'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 joys
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's
care-taking hand, and gradually reassumed color and heart. His solemn
eyes watched the young girl with an intensity which seemed to take her
strength from her. She would gladly have given her blood for him, if it
had occurred to her, or if it had been suggested as a good thing;
instead, she gave him potatoes baked to a nicety, and buttered toast
that would melt on the tongue, and, on the whole, they served the
purpose.

One day a smartly dressed man called to see Wallace. Mattie recognized
him as the Baptist clergyman from Kesota. He came in, and, introducing
himself said he had heard of the excellent work of Mr. Stacey, and that
he would like to speak with him.

Wallace was sitting in a rocking-chair in the parlor. Herman was in
Chicago, and there was no one but Mrs. Allen and Mattie in the house.

The Kesota minister introduced himself to Wallace, and then entered upon
a long eulogium upon his work in Cyene. He asked after his credentials,
his plans, his connections, and then he said:

"You've done a _fine_ work in softening the hearts of these people. We
had almost _despaired_ of doing anything with them. Yes, you have done a
_won-der-ful work_, and now we must reorganize a regular society here. I
will be out again when you get stronger