eir glances
encountering. All over the church, likewise, were people who avoided
seeing each other, though conscious, all down their rigid backbones,
that those with whom they had fallen out on that unhappy July day were
present.

There was no vestry in the old meeting-house; no retiring place of any
sort where the presiding minister might stay until the moment came for
him to make his quiet and impressive entrance through a softly opening
pulpit door. So when the Reverend William Sewall of St. John's, of the
neighbouring city, came into the North Estabrook sanctuary, it was as
his congregation had entered, through the front door and up the aisle.

There was a turning of heads to see him come, but there was a staring
of eyes, indeed, when it was seen by whom he was accompanied. The erect
figure of the young man, in his unexceptionable attire, walked slowly,
to keep pace with the feeble footsteps of the very old man in his
threadbare garments of the cut of half a century ago, and the sight of
the two together was one of the most strangely touching things that had
ever met the eyes of the people of North Estabrook. It may be said,
therefore, that from that first moment there was an unexpected and
unreckoned-with influence abroad in the place.

Now, to the subdued notes of the organ, which had been occupied with
one theme, built upon with varying harmonies but ever appearing--though
perhaps no ear but a trained one would have recognized it through the
veil--was added the breath of voices. It was only an old Christmas
carol, the music that of a German folk song, but dear to generations
of Christmas singers everywhere. The North Estabrook people recognized
it--yet did not recognize it. They had never heard it sung like that
before.

"_Holy night! peaceful night!
All is dark, save the light
Yonder where they sweet vigils keep O'er the Babe, who in silent sleep
Rests in heavenly peace._"

It was the presence of Margaret Sewall Fernald which had made it
possible to attempt music at this service--the music which it seemed
impossible to do without. Her voice was one of rare beauty, her
leadership that of training. Her husband, Guy, possessed a reliable,
if uncultivated, bass. Edson had sung a fair tenor in his college
glee-club. By the use of all her arts of persuasion Nan had provided an
alto singer, from the ranks of the choir which had once occupied this
organ-loft--the daughter of Asa Fraser. Whether the quarte