ndow all the way and drank in the delights of sea and sky and
field. It all seemed a miracle to her. And Maxwell, coming back into
Raymond at the end of that week, feeling the scorching, sickening
heat all the more because of his little taste of the ocean breezes,
thanked God for the joy he had witnessed, and entered upon his
discipleship with a humble heart, knowing for almost the first time
in his life this special kind of sacrifice. For never before had he
denied himself his regular summer trip away from the heat of
Raymond, whether he felt in any great need of rest or not.

"It is a fact," he said in reply to several inquiries on the part of
his church, "I do not feel in need of a vacation this year. I am
very well and prefer to stay here." It was with a feeling of relief
that he succeeded in concealing from every one but his wife what he
had done with this other family. He felt the need of doing anything
of that sort without display or approval from others.

So the summer came on, and Maxwell grew into a large knowledge of
his Lord. The First Church was still swayed by the power of the
Spirit. Maxwell marveled at the continuance of His stay. He knew
very well that from the beginning nothing but the Spirit's presence
had kept the church from being torn asunder by the remarkable
testing it had received of its discipleship. Even now there were
many of the members among those who had not taken the pledge, who
regarded the whole movement as Mrs. Winslow did, in the nature of a
fanatical interpretation of Christian duty, and looked for the
return of the old normal condition. Meanwhile the whole body of
disciples was under the influence of the Spirit, and the pastor went
his way that summer, doing his parish work in great joy, keeping up
his meetings with the railroad men as he had promised Alexander
Powers, and daily growing into a better knowledge of the Master.

Early one afternoon in August, after a day of refreshing coolness
following a long period of heat, Jasper Chase walked to his window
in the apartment house on the avenue and looked out.

On his desk lay a pile of manuscript. Since that evening when he had
spoken to Rachel Winslow he had not met her. His singularly
sensitive nature--sensitive to the point of extreme irritability
when he was thwarted--served to thrust him into an isolation that
was intensified by his habits as an author.

All through the heat of summer he had been writing. His book was
near