ure's God.

XI

"Well, Billy Sewall, have you taken your young friend home and put him
to bed?"

The questioner was Ralph Fernald, sitting with the rest of the
family--or those members of it who were not still attending to the wants
of little children--before the fireplace, talking things over. They had
been there for nearly an hour, since the service, but Sewall had only
just come in.

"I've taken him home," Sewall replied. "But there was no putting him to
bed. I think he'll sit up till morning--too happy to sleep, the fine old
man."

They had saved the big armchair for him, in the very centre of the
circle, but he would have none of it. He went over to a corner of the
inglenook, and dropped upon the floor at his sister Margaret's feet,
with his arm upon her knee. When somebody protested Guy interfered in
his defence.

"Let him alone," said he. "He gets enough of prominent positions.
If he wants to sit on the fence and kick his heels a while, let him.
He's certainly earned the right to do as he pleases to-night. By
George!--talk about magnificent team-work! If ever I saw a sacrifice
play I saw it to-night."

Sewall shook his head. "You may have seen team-work," said he, "though
Mr. Blake was the most of the team. But there was no sacrifice play on
my part. It was simply a matter of passing the ball to the man who could
run. I should have been down in four yards--if I ever got away at all."

John Fernald looked at his wife with a puzzled smile. "What sort o' talk
is that?" he queried. Then he went on: "I suppose you boys are giving
the credit to Elder Blake--who ought to have it. But I give a good deal
to William Sewall, whose eyes were sharp enough to see what we've been
too blind to find out--that the old man was the one who could deal with
us and make us see light on our quarrel. He did make us see it! Here
I've been standing off, pluming myself on being too wise to mix up in
the fuss, when I ought to have been doing my best to bring folks
together. What a difference it does make, the way you see a thing!"

He looked round upon the group, scanning one stirred face after another
as the ruddy firelight illumined them. His glance finally rested on his
daughter Nan. She too sat upon the floor, on a plump red cushion, with
her back against her husband's knee. Somehow Nan and Sam were never far
apart, at times like these. The youngest of the house of Fernald had
made perhaps the happiest marriage of the