THE BLACK FORGE MILLS;

OR,

UP THE KING'S HIGHWAY.

BY WILLIAM PENDLETON CHIPMAN,

Author of "The Mill Boy of the Genesee," etc.

"Fear not; for I have redeemed thee, I have called thee by thy name; thou art mine."

PHILADELPHIA:
AMERICAN BAPTIST PUBLICATION SOCIETY,
1420 Chestnut Street.

Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1889, by the
AMERICAN BAPTIST PUBLICATION SOCIETY,
In the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington.

DEDICATION.

REMEMBERING THE EARNEST AND EFFICIENT HELP I HAVE
EVER RECEIVED IN ALL MY STUDY AND TOIL FROM HER
WHOM GOD HAS GRACIOUSLY PERMITTED FOR
MORE THAN TEN YEARS TO WALK BY MY
SIDE, I DEDICATE THIS TRUE STORY
IN DEEPEST GRATITUDE TO

MY BELOVED WIFE.

CONTENTS.

THE BLACK FORGE MILLS;

OR,

UP THE KING'S HIGHWAY.

CHAPTER I.

THE BLACK FORGE MILLS.

The fragrant odor of sweet fern, and of pine and hemlock came to Ralph Carleton, the pastor of the First Baptist Church in Afton, as he leaned against the low window sill of his study. As he thus leaned he looked off toward the hills, which rose abruptly just back of the busy town. A heavy rain the night before had refreshed the thirsty earth, and clothed it anew in beauty. A perfect scene was spread before him, and, accustomed as he was to it, it still possessed for him new charms.

Field and grove were green and leafy; the waters of the broad bay sparkled in the sunlight, and the pure balmy air gave an indescribable sense of exhilaration. Morning glories, honeysuckles, and grape vines struggled for supremacy on the high trellis at the side of the tiny garden; roses clambered over the porch, and bud and blossom fairly rioted in profusion. The hum of bees, and the glad song of birds added to the perfection of that early June day, and to the young minister, who drank it all in with keenest enjoyment, there came an irresistible longing to throw aside his books and unfinished sermon for a ramble among the hills.

"I will do it," said he, eagerly, changing his dressing gown for his coat, and his slippers for his shoes. "In God's great temple I will seek fresh inspiration for my unfinished task, and who knows but that I shall meet the Master there, and receive the power that will make my words a living message; my tongue 'like as of fire.'"

A moment later, equipped for a long tramp, he entered the street, and walked briskly off toward the outskirts of the town.

After a half hour of hard climbing he reached a small plateau near the summit of the hill, from which an extended view could be obtained of the surrounding country. He had often heard his people speak of the beauty of this view since his coming to Afton; but as he now paused and for the first time took in the scene, an exclamation of surprise and delight escaped him.

Right at his feet lay the large and rapidly growing town, with its well-kept streets, its tasteful residences, and its huge manufactories; and yet, so far above it was he, that none of its din reached his ears, and only the tall chimneys, dark with smoke, told of the busy life going on there. In front of the town stretching away beyond the reach of human vision, and wonderfully suggestive of the unseen beyond, was the broad bay, its tossing waters dotted with sails of every size and many a hue. Well-cultivated farms extended to the bay on either side, and their growing crops waved gently to and fro in the balmy breeze. Back on the hillsides, and over the hilltops the dark forests lifted up their lofty heads, and perfumed the air with their piney fragrance. Altogether, it was a picture to delight an artist's eye, and Mr. Carleton, throwing himself down upon the greensward, eagerly took in the varied panorama, and felt his soul lifted by nature's matchless scenery nearer to nature's God.

His text for the coming Sunday came to his mind: "His glory covered the heavens, and the earth was full of his praise." And under the inspiration of his surroundings, and his consciousness of the Spirit's presence and help, his theme developed with marvelous rapidity. Taking a note book from his pocket, he jotted down thought after thought, utterly regardless of the lapse of time, until his sermon was finished. Then, looking at his watch, he found it was half-past eleven.

"Well," he remarked, "notwithstanding my long tramp, the morning has proved exceedingly profitable. Surely God has met and helped me here, and I will thank him for it."

Kneeling down by a boulder lying near, he poured forth his soul in thankfulness to God for his help, and asked for his blessing upon the message when it should be given to his people. When he arose a look of quiet peace rested upon his face, and new strength and courage for the Master's work were in his heart.

He now began his descent, taking a different route from that by which he had come, because it seemed to be shorter. He soon found, however, that the path led around the brow of the hill to the opposite side. As he was about to retrace his steps his eye rested upon a portion of the village which from the plateau he had not seen.

Below him there was a small valley, separated from the main portion of the town by a sharp declivity. Through this a considerable stream went foaming and dashing to the bay no great distance off. Along the banks of the stream five large buildings with their massive chimneys were built; and clustered about them were a half hundred or more tenement houses, exactly alike in size and hue. Mr. Carleton had no need to read the huge white letters on the roofs of the factories to know that they were the Black Forge Woolen Mills.

There came directly to his mind a conversation he had held only the Sunday before with Mr. Bacon, the superintendent of the mills. He had preached that morning on Christ's work in foreign lands. When he came down from the pulpit, Mr. Bacon had shaken hands with him, saying:

"Well, pastor, I have no objection to Christian work among the heathen. In fact I believe in it; but if there ever was a heathen field that needed immediate cultivation, we have it down at Black Forge Mills."

"Have you done your duty by it, then, my brother?" Mr. Carleton had asked.

Mr. Bacon, shrugging his shoulders, had replied:

"We are told not to cast our pearls before swine."

"But are you sure they are all swine?" the pastor had quickly asked; "and are our skirts clear from their blood until as faithful watchmen we have warned those people of their danger?"

Mr. Bacon at once had answered:

"You are right, Brother Carleton; and for a long time I have felt that they should have some religious privileges. If they won't come to us, we must take the gospel to them. Come down, and look over the ground at an early day, and we will see what can be done."

Mr. Carleton had given the desired promise, and now as he looked down upon the mills he was reminded of it.

"I can get there by the time the workmen come out for dinner, and it will give me an unusual opportunity to see them all together," he murmured. "I will go, though it will make me late at home." And he hastened away in that direction.

As he reached the main street of the village, he saw a half dozen boys from four to ten years of age at play. Pausing a moment, he asked the oldest:

"Would you like to go to Sunday-school, my boy?"

"What's that?" the lad inquired, curiously.

"It is a school where you learn God's truth, and the story of his Son, Jesus Christ," Mr. Carleton explained.

"Whose he?" the boy asked. "I never heard of him before. I guess he don't live in these parts, does he?"

Laying his hand on the boy's head, the minister earnestly said:

"It is God who made this world, and all there is in it; and he through his great love for us sent his only Son Jesus to die for our sins."

"What are ye givin' us?" the boy answered, with the air of one who was being imposed upon. "If that was so, don't ye 'spose I'd 'ave heard it before?"

Mr. Carleton walked slowly on toward the mill office, convinced that the Black Forge Mill field did indeed stand in need of immediate Christian work. He found that Mr. Bacon was not in; but a clerk told him that in five minutes more the noon whistle would blow, and from the office door he could see the mill hands file out through the gates.

Scarcely had the first note of the whistle sounded on the air, when men, women, and half-grown children, as if glad for even a brief respite from their monotonous toil, hastened out from the different buildings, and, pressing in one vast throng through the ponderous gateway scattered among the tenement houses for dinner. What a motley crowd it was! The old and the young were there, the weak and the strong, the ragged and the neat, the coarse and the delicate, the grave and the gay. But upon every face there was written more or less of that stolid indifference which comes from pinching poverty, excessive toil, and reckless living.

"Five hundred and sixty-two of them," remarked the clerk to Mr. Carleton; "and a harder set you never saw, men, women, or children. I won't except a single one. By the way," he added, as the minister started down the office steps, "you had better keep the middle of the street as you go up town, or some of those youngsters will be throwing eggs or stones at you. I saw Ray Branford, the biggest scamp among them all, and the greatest daredevil, too, have his eyes on you as he passed; you won't be the first minister he has insulted."

With a laugh Mr. Carleton replied, "Oh, I fear no trouble," and hurried out of the gate.

He had not gone a dozen rods when a stone thrown from some neighboring corner struck his hat, and sent it spinning to the ground, eight or ten feet away.

"Hoorah! Hoorah! Bully for you, Ray!" shouted a chorus of voices.

Mr. Carleton picked up his hat, and turned around, hardly expecting to see any one. To his surprise, however, a tall, well-developed lad of fifteen or sixteen years, stood on the nearest corner, with a stone in his right hand, while back of him was a squad of boys of all ages and sizes, from whom the shouts came.

"Well, parson," the boy with the stone coolly asked, "how was that for a shot?"

Amused at the boy's audacity, Mr. Carleton replied:

"It certainly was well done; but what if the stone had struck my head?"

"No fear of that, parson," the lad promptly answered. "Put on your hat, and I'll take it off again without hurting a hair of your head."

Without the slightest hesitation, Mr. Carleton put on his hat, saying:

"All right! I am ready."

With a quick, sharp jerk the stone left the boy's hand, and again the hat went spinning several yards away.

Mr. Carleton again picked it up, and walked slowly toward the boy.

"May I ask your name?" he inquired.

"Ray Branford."

"Well, Ray, have you ever heard the story of William Tell, who shot his arrow through an apple on his own boy's head."

"No, sir."

In as interesting manner as possible Mr. Carleton told the story to the boys, who without fear drew around him.

"That was good," Ray commented, when he had finished. "I believe I could have done that."

"I think you could have done it with practice; for your present feat shows that you have a keen eye and a steady arm," said Mr. Carleton; "but I know another story of a mere lad who, with a single stone in a sling, killed a great giant."

"Was it Jack the Giant Killer?" asked one of the boys. "If 'twas, I've read him."

"No," replied the minister, suppressing a smile; "his name was David, and he lived in Bible times, and by slaying this giant he saved his country from the enemy."

"I'd like to hear about it, sir," said Ray, respectfully. "I can kill a bird with a sling; I have often done it."

"I wouldn't do it any more," said Mr. Carleton; "for it is cruel to kill them just for the fun of the thing. But it happens that next Sunday our lesson in the Bible school is about this David and the giant he killed. The school meets at twelve o'clock. How many of you boys will come up there and hear about it?"

"I will," said Ray, promptly. None of the other lads, however, would give the promise; so, telling Ray he would be on the lookout for him, Mr. Carleton walked rapidly off toward home.

Ray looked after him until he had disappeared; then, turning to his companions, he said, with marked emphasis on his words: "Fellows, that parson is a brick; and I want you to understand he is to come and go around these mills as he pleases, without any interference from any of you. The first one of you I hear of abusing him, I'll souse you in the ditch, no matter when it is, or who ye are." And having delivered his message with the air of one who expected implicit obedience, he went up a side street, and entered a house standing near the stream.

The door of the house opened directly into a room, which a single glance showed to be kitchen, dining, and sitting room, all in one. A long table was stretched nearly across the room, and at this four men and three women were sitting, eating with that haste and voraciousness characteristic of those who feel that even their mealtime is limited. Another woman was moving rapidly about the table, waiting on those seated there; while three or four half-clad and dirty children crawled about the floor.

Taking a vacant place at the table, Ray helped himself from the huge dish of cabbage, pork, and potatoes, and began to eat with the same rapidity and greediness that characterized the others.

"What mischief has delayed ye this time?" asked the oldest of the men, and one whose bloated visage suggested reckless dissipation.

"I only stopped, pop, to stone the parson," the boy coolly answered.

"Ye might have been in better business," growled his father.

"Yes, such as gettin' drunk and beatin' the ole woman," Ray, in perfect mimicry of his father's tones, replied.

A low oath was the only answer.

"What did the parson do?" one of the women at the table, a sister of the lad, asked curiously.

"Picked up his hat, put it on his head, and asked me to knock it off again," replied the lad, while he still ate greedily.

"I don't believe it," said another sister.

"He certainly did, and I as certainly knocked it off again," affirmed Ray.

"Then what did he do?" asked one of his brothers, moving back from the table.

"He told me about a man named Tell, who shot an arrow through an apple on the head of his boy, and about a fellow named David, who killed a giant with a stone. He said the last story was in the Bible, and asked me to come up to his Sunday-school and hear about it."

"Of course you'll go," said the brother, with a sneer.

"I promised to go, and Ray Branford keeps his word; which is more than either of his brothers can say," responded the lad, hotly.

"Hoorah! our Ray will be a minister yet," shouted his youngest sister, pulling his hair as she passed by him.

A general laugh followed this sally.

"He is the only one out of the whole lot of which such a thing is possible," sharply answered the woman waiting at the table, and who was the wife of Ray's oldest brother. Then stopping beside the boy, she said, in a tone too low for the others to hear:

"Mother is suffering dreadfully, Ray. I wish you'd go in and see her before you go back to the mill."

He arose, and, crossing the room, entered a small bedroom. On the bed lay a woman; and even to the most casual observer the hacking cough and hectic flush told that her days were numbered.

In a rough sort of a way, that he intended should indicate kindness, Ray asked:

"How are ye to-day, mam?"

"Growing weaker every moment, my son," the woman feebly answered. Then anxiously: "Didn't I hear you say that you had been stoning the minister?"

"Only to knock his hat off, mam," he replied. Then, knowing it would please his mother, he added: "But he got the best of me, as I have promised to go up to his church next Sunday."

"The Lord be praised for that!" fervently ejaculated his mother. "If you would only go every Sunday, Ray."

"Perhaps I'll like it so well I'll keep on going." And the boy laughed at the very thought.

Then the whistle blew, and he hurried off to the mill.

Two hours later his sister-in-law came hurriedly into the mill, and, with blanched cheeks, said:

"Ray, your mother is dying, and wants you at once."

"Have you told pop?" he inquired, adjusting his jack so that he could leave it.

"Yes, and the others," she hastily replied. "Your sisters are over at the house already; but father and the boys won't come."

With a word of explanation to the overseer of his room, Ray started on the run for the house. His mother was still conscious when he entered the room, and, recognizing him, gasped out:

"Ray, get a Bible, quick!"

The boy knew there was none in the house, and hastened out into the street.

"Grandfather Peck is the only one I know of that would be likely to have a Bible," he said to himself, and hurried down a lane toward a little brown house at the extreme end.

To his hasty knock a pleasant voice responded: "Come in!"

"Ho! Ray, is it you?" an old white-haired man, confined to the bed in one corner of the room, asked.

"Yes, grandfather," responded Ray. "But mother is very sick, and wants a Bible. Have you got one?"

"Yes; there it is at the foot of the bed," the old man answered. "And, Ray, read her the first part of the forty-third chapter of Isaiah. That'll comfort her."

"Who's he?" Ray asked, quickly.

"I forgot how little you and the others around here know of that blessed book," the old man replied, with a heavy sigh. "Here, I have opened the book at the place. Hurry home with it now."

Ray, with the Bible open at the specified chapter, ran back to his home. His mother was bolstered up in bed, and, kneeling by her side, he read as best he could the holy words: "But now thus saith the Lord that created thee, O Jacob, and he that formed thee, O Israel, Fear not: for I have redeemed thee, I have called thee by thy name: thou art mine. When thou passest through the waters I will be with thee; and through the rivers, they shall not overflow thee: when thou walkest through the fire, thou shalt not be burned; neither shall the flame kindle upon thee. For I am the Lord thy God, the Holy One of Israel, thy Saviour."

A sudden movement of his mother caused him to stop his reading and look up. She had raised herself up to a sitting position, her arms were extended, her eyes were turned heavenward, her lips moved:

"Fear not: for I have redeemed thee, I have called thee by thy name: thou art mine." She repeated the words once, twice, thrice, in a clear, strong voice, and then fell back upon the pillow—dead!

Those divine words were the only legacy she had left her boy.

CHAPTER II.

MISS SQUIRE'S NEW SCHOLAR.

About ten o'clock the next evening the door bell of the First Church parsonage rang with a sharp and prolonged peal, as though pulled by a vigorous hand. The servant had gone to her room long before; so Mr. Carleton, who sat in the cozy parlor, reading to his wife, arose and went to the door. Mrs. Carleton heard him, with surprise manifest in his tones, say "Good-evening!" The caller, whoever he was, replied at some length, but in a voice too low for her to understand his words; then he and Mr. Carleton went up to the study.

It was nearly an hour later when they came down, the visitor going directly out, while Mr. Carleton, closing and locking the door, came to the parlor. He seemed surprised to find his wife still waiting for him, and said:

"Had I known you were sitting up for me, Mary, I would have dismissed my caller sooner."

"Oh, it was my own choice," she replied, as they entered their room together. "But who was your visitor?"

"Ray Branford, the boy who stoned me yesterday down at Black Forge Mills," he answered, with a thoughtful expression still on his face.

"Why, what did he want at this time of night?"

"His mother is dead, and he came for me to attend the funeral service to-morrow morning."

"To-morrow, Saturday morning! How can you afford the time?"

"I must, even if other things are neglected. You could hardly expect that people to understand that a minister should always be consulted before the hour for a funeral service is decided; and just at this time I am anxious to secure every hold upon them that is possible. It may be that this funeral will prove to be the entering wedge for giving the gospel to them. They certainly stand in sad need of it."

"I knew this Mrs. Branford was dead," he went on, "Mr. Bacon having told me of it last evening; but as they frequently bury their friends down there without any religious service, he did not know whether I would be called upon or not. Nor would I have been but for this boy. His father already lies in a state of beastly intoxication, though the dead body of the wife and mother still lies in the house; his brothers are utterly indifferent whether there is a funeral service or not, but the sisters, through Ray's earnest solicitation, have finally consented that I should come, though they stipulate that there shall be no preaching."

"This boy, then, seems to be the most Christianized of the whole lot," Mrs. Carleton remarked.

"Possibly in some respects," answered her husband. "Still, he unhesitatingly says that but for our meeting yesterday, neither would he have thought of having me. I seem to have quite won his heart by my method of dealing with him. I could hardly repress a smile to-night when, with the air of one who has absolute authority down there, he informed me I need not fear to come and go among that people, as he had already issued his orders that I was not to be molested under any circumstances."

Mrs. Carleton laughed heartily. "An able protector you have in him, surely," she said.

"I am not so sure," Mr. Carleton continued, seriously, "but that he may prove a valuable helper, if not protector. Mr. Bacon says he has almost unlimited power over his associates at the mills; is the ringleader in all their mischief; is wild, daring, and exceedingly profane. On the other hand, he is strenuously opposed to everything that will intoxicate, and prides himself on keeping his word. What little I have seen of him has convinced me that he has in him the material for a noble Christian manhood, only let the Spirit once begin the work. He will come to the Bible school next Sunday, and I am hoping it will be the beginning of better things for him, and for the Black Forge people."

"In whose class will you put him?" Mrs. Carleton asked, with interest.

"Miss Squire's. I have already spoken to her about it; she has rare tact for holding her boys, and I trust may secure Ray's promise to attend regularly. Let his word once be given, we shall surely have him as a permanent scholar with us."

Later in the night Mr. Carleton was aroused by his wife's restlessness, and asked the cause.

"I cannot get that poor woman at the Black Forge Mills out of my mind," she replied. "To think that she should have died there without a single comfort, and with no Christian hope."

"I meant to have told you," her husband quickly said, "that she was a Christian, and died happily. She belonged to a Christian family in an adjoining town, and early in life made a profession of faith. She afterward married this Branford, much against the wishes of her friends, and a sad, distressing life has been hers, until her heart was completely broken by her husband's dissipation and her children's waywardness. But she never gave up her hope, and when this Ray came to her side yesterday she sent him for a Bible, and died repeating some of its blessed promises. The boy was really eloquent as he pictured to me that death-bed scene, and though he may not realize it, it has already made a marked impression upon him."

With a sigh of relief Mrs. Carleton settled back upon her pillow, and was soon asleep.

For the funeral service the following morning, Mr. Carleton, since he was not to preach, selected several passages of Scripture which, read in succession, told the old story of man's sin and God's redemption through Christ; which portrayed the woe of the unbeliever in his death, and the blessed hope of all who fall asleep in Jesus. He was an impressive reader, and as God's word, without comment, fell from his lips, it doubtless went home to the hearts of those who were listening, with greater power than any mere human words could have done. In his prayer, moreover, he thanked God for the faith of the departed—a faith which had survived the most trying experiences of life, and had enabled her, even when every human comfort was wanting, to find joy and consolation in her Lord. He prayed also that the faith of the mother might now become the heritage of her erring children, and be the means which, by God's blessing, should bring eternal life to their souls. Then all that remained of that patient, long-suffering, Christian mother, was borne over to the village cemetery on the hillside, and laid to rest. Her life had been obscure to human eyes, her prayers had not been answered, and yet who would dare say of either, "He looked for fruit, and there was none." "And I heard a voice from heaven saying unto me, Write, Blessed are the dead which die in the Lord from henceforth; yea, saith the Spirit, that they may rest from their labors; and their works do follow them."

Sunday morning dawned bright and beautiful. It was one of those lovely June mornings when the air is warm and balmy, when everything is green and flourishing, when the birds twitter from branch to branch or sweep down into the grass in search of food, and when all nature seems to praise God, and to invite his praise.

Ray was awakened early by one of his brothers, who said:

"Here, wake up, old fellow; pop and Jake and I are going down the bay a-fishing, and we want you to go with us."

"Well, that's jolly," replied the boy, sitting up in bed. "How long before you'll be off?"

"As soon as we can get ready; hurry up!" his brother answered.

"But, you see," said Ray, remembering his promise now, "I can't go."

"Why not, I'd like to know?" asked his brother.

"Because I have promised to be at Sunday-school," answered he, ruefully.

"That's a good one." And the brother sat down on the bed and laughed loud and long at the very idea of Ray's giving up a fishing trip to go to a Sunday-school. Catching his breath finally, he suggested: "Tell the parson you hadn't been in so long, that you forgot what day they held it." And again he laughed at his own attempt at wit.

Provoked at his mirth, Ray sprang from the bed and began to dress himself, without saying a word. The brother, taking it for granted that the boy would soon join them for the trip, left the room. When, however, he came down to breakfast, with a clean shirt and collar on, his hair nicely combed, his clothes brushed, and his boots freshly blacked, the brother, with an oath, asked:

"Ain't you going with us, Ray?"

"Not if I know myself," he coolly replied; "I have a more pressing engagement." And as neither scorn nor threats moved him in his decision, the others finally went off without him.

As the hour approached for the morning service, Ray sought his sister-in-law, whom he in some way felt was most in sympathy with him, and said:

"Come, Betsy, go up to church and Sunday-school with me to-day. I shall feel like a fish on dry land up there alone."

"I wish I could," she replied, a wistful look coming into her face. "But George has gone off, and the girls never will look out for the children, so I can't go."

He then went to each of his sisters in turn with a similar request, but in each case met with a scornful refusal, the younger one adding:

"You got your minister off on us yesterday, and we heard Bible and praying enough then to make us blue for a week. I'd like to see myself going where he is again."

Ray left the house and walked slowly off up town. He felt all out of humor with himself, and repeatedly said:

"Catch me making such a fool of myself again, and you'll catch a weasel asleep."

He reached Main Street just as the First Church bell tolled for service, and following the people in, took a seat in the gallery. He could not remember the time when he had been inside of a meeting house before, and gazed curiously around at the frescoed walls, the memorial windows, and the large organ and choir.

With the last stroke of the bell the organist struck the keyboard, and as the melodious sounds pealed forth the boy lost himself in the service. Organ and song, Scripture and prayer, and sermon, all had a charm and novelty for him, which were irresistible. Mr. Carleton had evidently brought with him to the pulpit that morning some of that power he had felt a few days before on the hilltops, and from the moment he announced his text until he had finished the discourse, Ray's eyes were fastened upon him. When he had closed, the boy gave a sigh of satisfaction, and said to himself:

"He can preach as well as I can throw stones," which, after all, was not so bad a compliment.

As the congregation was dismissed, Ray followed the others down the stairs and out of the vestibule, wondering how he should find his way into the schoolrooms. As he passed out of the doors, however, a hand was laid upon his shoulder, and Mr. Carleton's voice said:

"I am glad you were here this morning, Ray. If you will wait here on the steps a minute or two, I will then go with you into the school."

As he stood there Mr. Bacon, the superintendent of the mills, and to whom he had scarcely ever spoken except in a business way, came to him, and shook hands cordially with him, saying:

"Did you enjoy the service, Ray? We are glad to have you here; and, while I think of it, we are going to arrange for a Sunday-school and preaching service down at the Forge, and we shall look to you to help us make it a success."

The boy, from amazement, answered not a word, but he straightened himself up an inch or two taller at the thought that "Boss" Bacon and some of the other First Church people were going to undertake an enterprise, and expected him to help. A new idea of usefulness and responsibility slowly crept into his brain.

Mr. Carleton now joined him, and together they entered the spacious and tasteful schoolrooms in the rear of the main audience room. Down one of the long aisles they went, and finally stopped by a class of lads about his own age.

"Miss Squire," Mr. Carleton said to a dainty, fairy-like lady, in charge, "this is the new scholar I told you about, and I trust you and he will get along so nicely together, that we may regard him as a permanent scholar." Then to Ray: "I have no class of my own, Ray, and so have decided to put you here with these boys, and this teacher. Miss Squire, Master Ray Branford." And then he passed on to the superintendent's desk.

"I am very glad to have you for a scholar," Miss Squire said, in a low, musical voice; and she laid her daintily-gloved hand in his. "Are you acquainted with these lads? If not, at the close of the school, I shall be glad to introduce you. Here, you may take this seat just in front of me, Ray."

There was something in her manner that relieved the lad of his awkwardness and embarrassment, and he took the seat she assigned him, and glanced around at the faces of his companions. There were nine besides himself, but with the exception of two they were strangers. He had only a slight acquaintance with these two, moreover, having seen them but once or twice before at the mills. One was Edward Lawton, the son of the president of the mill corporation, the other was John Bacon, the son of the mill superintendent. Their faces showed that they did not like his entrance to the class, and that they regarded him as an intruder. This fact, however, instead of disconcerting Ray, only helped him to regain his self-possession. "They don't want me evidently," he muttered to himself, "because I work in their fathers' mill. Well, that's a big inducement to stay." And he settled back in his chair with an air that said, "I have as much right here as any of you, and I propose to maintain it."

Miss Squire had been quick to read the faces of the other lads, and knew the attitude they had assumed toward the new-comer; she had indeed expected it, and prepared herself for it. She was secretly pleased, moreover, to notice that Ray, instead of being repulsed by their attitude, was all the more determined to remain, and she now felt that she would be able to manage the situation for the good of all.

But the stroke of the bell now called the school to order, and a moment later four hundred young voices united in singing that beautiful hymn beginning:

"We come with hearts of gladness,

Our Father and our King!

With brows undimmed by sadness,

Thy wondrous love to sing;

To crave thy Spirit's blessing

Upon this hallowed hour,

With grateful love confessing

Thy wisdom and thy power."

With the second verse a tenor voice rang out so loud and clear and perfect as to attract attention even amid that chorus of voices. Miss Squire, herself a fine singer, unconsciously paused to listen to it. Mr. Carleton heard it, and silently prayed, "O Lord, use that voice in thy service." The boys in the singer's class heard it, and the most of them were won over to his side as they listened, feeling after a boyish fashion that a fellow who could sing like that wasn't so bad, after all. But the singer, utterly unconscious of the fact that he had attracted any notice to himself, sang on with his whole heart in it, and when the hymn was finished, he exclaimed, loud enough to be heard by all the class: "My! that's worth coming up here for any day. Do you often sing such pieces as that?"

Repressing the laugh that followed by a single glance, Miss Squire answered:

"It was fine, Ray. God has given you a wonderful voice, and you should use it only for him."

The boy gave her a pleased look, and then instinctively bowed his head as he saw her do, when the prayer was offered. The reading for the day was one of David's Psalms. And the superintendent briefly spoke of this, and the circumstances under which it had been written, before they read it. Ray touched his nearest companion, and with a loud whisper, asked:

"Was it the same fellow that we are going to study about, and who killed the giant?"

Miss Squire placed her hand on his arm, saying:

"It was the same one, Ray; but wait until we begin the study of the lesson, and then ask what questions you choose."

The lesson was soon reached, and after reading the verses with her class, Miss Squire laid her Bible down on her lap, and said:

"Now, I want each one of you to tell me something about this stripling David. John, you may commence."

"He was the son of Jesse," he answered.

"He lived at Bethlehem," said another.

"He kept his father's sheep," said a third.

"He had been anointed by Samuel to be king over Israel," added a fourth.

"He was young, and he killed a giant with a stone from his sling," said Ray, desperately; "that's all I know about him, and Mr. Carleton told me that."

A general laugh followed.

"Boys," said Miss Squire, earnestly, "if any of you had lived where you never heard who was president of the United States, would you want to be laughed at for your ignorance? Ray, unfortunately, has not been as favored as you, but he is braver than you all in one respect. He is not ashamed to let us know he is ignorant. In that very fact we have the assurance that if he has the opportunity he will not refuse to learn."

Then noticing that Ray had neither lesson-leaf nor Bible, she handed her own Bible—an Oxford Teachers', with flexible covers—over to him, saying:

"Here, Ray, take this, and use it until you get another."

"Do you mean, take that home with me?" he asked, in astonishment.

"Yes," she replied, "if you will agree to read some in it every day, and then come here Sundays, and ask me about what you do not understand."

Ray hesitated for a moment, but those earnest eyes looked with perfect confidence into his own, as she added:

"I know if you will only promise me that, not one of my boys here will more surely keep his word."

Then Ray saw his mother on her bed of sickness, and heard her saying again: "I wish you would go every Sunday, Ray." And reaching out his hand, he put it into hers, saying, "I promise."

With a ring of gladness almost triumphant in her tones, Miss Squire went on with the lesson, and Ray could scarcely believe the hour was up when the bell rang for closing, so interested had he become in David and the great work he had accomplished. He had asked Miss Squire but one question. When she spoke of David's faith in the Lord, he asked, quickly:

"What is faith?"

Her reply was characteristic, and happily illustrated her aptness to teach. "Ray," she asked, "what made Mr. Carleton willing, last Thursday, to put his hat back on his head, and let you throw another stone at it when, had you missed, you might have put out his sight, or endangered his life?"

"He believed I could hit it," answered the lad, in some confusion at the thought that she knew of his audacious prank.

"In other words, he had faith in your ability to do just as you said. And faith in God is believing that he is both able and willing to do what he has promised."

As Miss Squire met her pastor at the six o'clock prayer and praise service, he asked:

"Well, what is your impression of the new scholar?"

"That he is worth saving," she quickly replied.

"How much, with the Master's help, did you accomplish toward that end to-day?" he then inquired.

"I got his promise to read the Bible and to come to Sunday-school regularly," she answered; and, hesitatingly, "I am almost sure I helped him to see what it is to have faith in God."

"Well done," he said; "and I am praying with you that the divine seed of this day may have already taken root in his heart."

Then they parted, each hopeful of the new scholar; and yet so short-sighted is human faith, that had either of them known where that scholar was, and what he was doing at that very hour, their hopes would have gone out in darkness.

After dinner, Ray had gone across the stream at the mills, and into the woods beyond. Putting his fingers into his mouth, he had given, in rapid succession, three shrill whistles. In answer, a dozen or more lads of his own age had joined him. So soon as all were assembled, they formed a ring about their leader, saying:

"At thy call, chief of the Night Hawks, we come."

"What is it you come for?" Ray asked.

"To do thy bidding, O chief," they answered in chorus.

"Know ye the arch-traitor, Jacob Woodhull?" he asked.

Three groans followed.

"I heard him say last evening," the leader went on, "that he should begin to pick his strawberries to-morrow."

"Hear, hear!" cried all.

"He told Burnett, the grocer, that he would furnish him with twenty boxes to-morrow night, and the Night Hawks of Black Forge must see that he breaks his word."

"Hurrah! hurrah!" all cried, with a smacking of lips.

"Those who want a feast, follow me!" Ray cried, and started off through the woods, his companions following close behind.

A half mile's walk brought them to a small clearing containing a cabin, barn, crib, and other out-buildings, owned by Jacob Woodhull, an eccentric but kind-hearted farmer. He made a specialty of small fruits on his little farm, finding a ready market for them in the neighboring village; and, as he had no family, he thus made a comfortable support for himself. For no good reason the boys at the Black Forge Mills had taken a dislike to the man, and frequently annoyed him by pilfering his fruits, tearing down his fences, and destroying his crops.

At a signal from Ray, the squad came to a halt just on the edge of the woods, and then he said:

"We'll have to wait awhile, boys. The berries are just back of the barn, but old Woodhull is in the house. By-and-by he will come out of the house to do his chores, before going up town to the evening service. He'll go into that crib yonder for grain, and I'll slip up and shut him in. Then we can pick the berries at our leisure, without fear of being disturbed. When we get all we want, we'll let the old fellow out—but hardly in time for him to go up to the meeting to-night."

"Hurrah for our chief!" the boys cried, in a suppressed whisper.

An hour or so later, the door of the house opened, and Mr. Woodhull, with no thought of the base trick about to be played upon him, came forth. He had a pail in his hand, and went down to the spring just back of the cabin for water.

"He'll go to the crib next," Ray whispered to his companions. "You fellows keep quiet until I have shut him in." And keeping the barn between himself and the house, he ran for the crib. Crouching down behind it, he waited.

Five minutes after Mr. Woodhull again appeared, coming directly, as the boy had predicted, for the granary. Unlocking it, he entered, and began to fill a measure with meal. Before he had accomplished his task, however, the door, to his astonishment, was swung to and fastened; then he heard footsteps hastening away. Soon after he heard many voices out by the barn, and it at once flashed upon him that a raid was being made by the factory boys upon his berries. He tried to force open the door, but it resisted every effort. He looked out of a crevice, but the barn was between him and the thieves, and he could not see them. He hallooed, but got only laughter and derision for an answer. The sun had set, and darkness was fast falling, before his release came, and even then he got out of the building only in time to see a dark form escaping to the woods.

Lighting a lantern, he hurried out to his strawberry bed, to find the plants and unripe berries uninjured, but every ripe berry picked as clean as if he had done it himself.

"It is that Ray Branford and his crew!" he ejaculated, wrathfully. "I know it as well as if I'd seen 'em; but it is another thing to prove it."

The story reached Mr. Carleton and Miss Squire before another Sunday, and, as they talked it over, they said: "How confident we were that he was already impressed with a desire to do better! and yet, if it was he, no good impression can have been made upon him, and he is as far from the kingdom as ever."

But they only made another mistake, and revealed how little they knew of God's way of working, after all; for the Holy Spirit was already striving with that boy, and was leading him surely toward the kingdom. But the devil never yet gave up a soul without a struggle, and that thieving exploit was one of his wiles to drown out the Spirit's pleadings, and, if possible, to tighten his own hold upon the boy's soul. He, like many of his followers, grows more and more desperate when he finds he is losing his power.

CHAPTER III.

ONE NIGHT'S WORK.

On a cold, stormy day, six months later, Mr. Carleton sat at his study table, his head bowed upon his hands his whole attitude that of dejectedness, if not of grief. What was the matter?

Has it ever occurred to you, dear reader, that ministers are human, just as other men, and that when the visible results of their labors are not as great as they have hoped for and looked for and prayed for, they sometimes lose faith in themselves and their people, and, alas! too often in God? When this time comes, to whom shall the pastor turn for consolation? His people must never see the despondency of his heart, his poor wife has more than her share of burdens already; and so there is but one thing he can do: shut himself in his study and lay his burdens upon God.

Things he would readily see were he trying to comfort others are hid from his eyes; promises so rich and full and sure when recalled to console others have an empty sound to his ears; faith strong and steadfast when he has been striving to cheer other hearts has grown feeble in his own soul. This, too, many times when there is not the slightest need of it. God is really leading and blessing the work done for him; but it is in his way, and not in man's way—and there is where the trouble lies.

This was the only trouble with Mr. Carleton now. He had arranged for so much and expected so much, along certain lines and in certain ways, that, now it had not come, he at once jumped to the conclusion that God was not honoring his ministry at all. Through his lack of faith he failed to see that the Lord in his own way was accomplishing a work infinitely beyond that which he had expected.

First of all, there was the Black Forge Mission, for that had really been established. Some months before Mr. Bacon had called on him, announcing in his off-hand way the good news:

"Well, pastor, our directors have decided to fit up a room down at the mills for a chapel, and offer it, rent free, to the First Church people as long as they care to sustain a Sunday-school and religious services on that field."

It was a nice room, too, large and well adapted to its purpose. One-half of a large storehouse on the main street had been partitioned off, making a room forty by sixty feet. This had been plastered and frescoed, a belfry put on the roof with its bell, and a library room arranged beside the entrance, while four large windows on each side gave ample light.

Then the First Church people had furnished the room tastefully and comfortably. There were four rows of nice settees, a platform and desk with its large Bible, Scripture mottoes on the walls, books to fill the library shelves, and a Bible and singing book for each scholar. When the fall months came, two good stoves were added, and thus the room was made warm and attractive for all.

The school had been successful, too, from the outset; for there were nearly two hundred scholars on the roll, with an average attendance of an hundred and fifty. The preaching services and prayer meetings had not been as well attended, it is true, nor had there been any indication that souls were anxious to find Jesus. But there was nothing strange in this. How long have some of our missionaries toiled on their fields before there was any indication of the Spirit's convicting power? Not months, but years. The conditions we are considering were little different. Black Forge Mills, when the mission was first established, was morally as dark as were some of those heathen lands. Still, had Mr. Carleton taken the trouble to have questioned Mr. Bacon even, he would have learned that there was less drunkenness and brawling and Sabbath-breaking among that people now than six months before, and had he only watched the children as he went among them, he would have noticed that they were less rude; and he knew, had he only taken the trouble to recall the fact, that he was much more welcome than at first in those Black Forge homes. God's work was surely being accomplished among that people: the faithful seed-sowing in the Sunday-school and from the pulpit was not to return unto the Master void.

Then there was Ray Branford. How Mr. Carleton and Miss Squire had labored and prayed for his conversion! He had kept his promise. Each Sunday had seen him in his place. He had each week reported to his teacher his readings, and had astonished her with both his questions and his answers. Sometimes she had been obliged to confess her own ignorance, as his thoughtful and far-reaching interrogations were propounded, and had been obliged to refer him to Mr. Carleton himself. They all noticed, too, the boy's improvement in appearance and morals. Less complaint came to them now than formerly of his mischievous pranks and petty pilferings. He came and went among them as one whose place was assured. He had in many ways been a help to them at the mission chapel, and his influence had been heartily given for the suppression of all disorder in their services whenever it seemed likely to occur. But more than this could not be said of him. His conversion seemed as far off as ever, and while attached to Mr. Carleton and his teacher, he in no way indicated a desire to know more intimately their Master and their Lord.

Still, had not the changes in the lad been very great—as great perhaps as they could reasonably expect? There were many scholars in the First Church school better favored than this poor lad, and with the best of home influences, and yet there had not been so marked changes in them as in him. Why be discouraged? Rather, why not be profoundly encouraged at the sure manifestations of God's presence with that boy? Now, Mr. Carleton, sensible fellow that he was, knew all this, and had it been any one but himself who was so dejected, he would have thought of it, and with triumph manifest in his tones, he would have called their attention to it, and with them have thanked God for it. As it was, he just bowed there on his hands troubled in spirit, and cried out, "How long, Lord? Wilt thou hide thyself forever?"

He arose after a time and went to the window, looking out upon the rain as it drove itself heavily against the panes.

"Here it is the night for our prayer meeting, and I'd like to know how many will be out in such a storm as this," he muttered, half aloud. "A mere handful in that little back room, when I was counting on so great a number."

"In other words, Rev. Ralph Carleton thinks he could have arranged the weather better than his Lord, and because it does not suit him he must needs find fault, and be woefully put out about it," said a voice behind him.

He turned and looked gravely at his wife, who had entered in time to hear his complaint, and who now looked up, half amused and half seriously, into his face.

"The rebuke was needed, Mary," he at last said, "and may the dear Master forgive my want of faith." Then drawing her down on the lounge beside him, he poured into her sympathizing ears the whole story of his dejectedness. She listened attentively until he had finished, and then, with mirth dancing in her eyes, though her words were grave enough, repeated almost his own utterances to one of his members the evening before. With his own gesture and emphasis, she pointed out the success of the mission, the great changes in Ray Branford, and other marked evidences of God's blessing upon the home church, and closed with the words, "Physician, heal thyself."

He heard her through without a comment; then, dropping on his knees, he drew her down beside him, and begged God's forgiveness for his want of courage and faith, for his desire to have things his own, and not God's way, and thanked him for the true helper and sympathizer he had given him in his wife. He prayed that there might be given to them both fuller grace, greater power, and more submissive wills to toil on God's time and in God's way for the extension of his kingdom on the earth. He arose from his knees, saying, "There, Mary, I will go back to my work, and even if I have but one out to-night besides myself, they shall have the best spiritual food I can give them."

The storm increased rather than diminished in violence as night came on, and when Mr. Carleton and his wife entered the church, they found that the sexton had lighted and heated only the small room. But this was large enough to hold the bare dozen who had braved the storm for that hour of prayer. Two of the deacons and their wives, three young ladies who had recently joined the church, the sexton and his wife, with Mr. and Mrs. Carleton made eleven. Who was the twelfth? Will you believe it? It was Ray Branford. Never before had he attended a Friday night prayer meeting at the First Church; and now to be out in all that storm! It seemed easy enough to account for it, when he explained to Mr. Carleton, as he shook hands with him, that a neighbor had been taken suddenly sick and he had come up for the doctor. The doctor wasn't at home, and wouldn't be for an hour; and as he was going to ride back with him to the Forge, he thought he might as well come in to the prayer meeting and wait there, as over at the doctor's office. This was the human explanation of it; but up there in heaven they would have told you it was a providence of God.

Mr. Carleton was very informal in that service. He took his chair right down near his little audience, and opening his Bible he read a few verses from the forty-third chapter of Isaiah, and then called on Deacon Blake to pray. This good brother was one of those who are so rare, who know how to come directly to God and tell him just what they need. When he had done that, he stopped. It was a very brief prayer, almost as brief as that of Bartimeus when he asked the Lord for sight; but all of that little company felt they had been lifted right into God's presence, and that he knew, and would give them just what they needed most. Then they sang a familiar hymn, after which Mr. Carleton, still sitting in his chair, gave them a brief talk.

"There is one verse here in this passage I have read," he remarked, "that I want you all to notice, 'Fear not: for I have redeemed thee; I have called thee by thy name: thou art mine.' This, of course, applies first to God's chosen people Israel; but secondly, to the spiritual Israel, and thus to each child of God. Every one of us here to-night, if he belongs to Christ, can claim the words.

"The child of God is admonished to fear not—to let nothing trouble him—neither life's trials nor death itself. He of all men should have no cause for alarm. The reason for this is threefold. God has redeemed him; has called him by name; has declared, 'Thou art mine.' This is not a mere repetition of thought. There is a gradation and a climax. To be called by name is more than mere redemption; to have it declared that 'thou art God's is more than the calling by name. There are three steps, and they are progressive—first, redemption, then intimacy, and last, identity; for Christ and his disciple are one."

Then briefly, but pointedly, Mr. Carleton proceeded to illustrate the three steps—redemption through Christ, intimacy with Christ, and identity with him. He closed by quoting the words: "To him that overcometh will I grant to sit with me in my throne, even as I also overcame, and am set down with my Father in his throne," and added, "When the disciple has placed himself in complete submission to the will of God, as did our blessed Master, then is this last stage reached—namely, his complete identification with his Lord."

From the moment that Mr. Carleton read the Scripture lesson Ray Branford seemed unusually agitated, and before he had finished his remarks great tears were flowing down the boy's cheeks. When, however, he at the close of the meeting hastened to the lad's side with the anxious inquiry: "What is it, Ray? Can I help you?" the boy hastily brushed away his tears, and brusquely replied: "Those were the words my mother repeated when dying." Then he turned, and fled out into the storm and darkness.

This, then, was the cause for his great agitation, and with a shade of disappointment apparent on his face, Mr. Carleton turned around to speak with Deacon Blake.

"Brother Carleton," said that wise old gentleman, "don't you know that the Lord can go with that boy in all this storm and darkness, and save him, too?" And he did.

"Dr. Gasque, what is it to be a Christian?" Ray asked, as he got into that gentleman's buggy, and they rode off together toward the Black Forge Mills.

Now it happened that Dr. Gasque, though a very skillful physician, and one who prided himself on his strict morality, was not a Christian. He was not even a church-goer. But he knew Ray's history well, and realized that the boy to ask such a question must be thoroughly in earnest. Under the circumstances, then, he probably did what was the very best thing to do, for he answered: "I don't know."

"Well," said the boy, "if there is anything in Christianity at all, ought not a man who is constantly with those who are passing into eternity to know something about it himself, that he might tell others of it?"

The question, startling as it was to the doctor, was characteristic of the lad. For some months he had manifested a similar directness in his questions to his teacher, and to Mr. Carleton. A long silence followed, and the lights at the Forge were in sight before the doctor answered; but he at last said: "I suppose he had."

"How would you settle such a question?" persisted the boy.

There came to the doctor a bright vision of a home among the New Hampshire hills, and a white-haired father and mother praying for their only son, and he answered, huskily: "I should go directly to Christ himself."

"Thank you!" Ray said, as he leaped out of the buggy, and hastened home. Going directly to his room, he closed and locked the door. Then he knelt down by his bedside, repeating over and over again the words: "Lord Jesus, take me. Lord Jesus, take me."

After a while he rose from his knees, lighted the lamp, took his Bible from the old chest in which he kept it, and turned over its pages. He was quite familiar with them now, and soon found what he wanted. "Him that cometh unto me, I will in nowise cast out." "That means Ray Branford, just as much as any one else," he commented. He now turned to the story of the Philippian jailer, and read Paul's direction to him: "Believe on the Lord Jesus Christ, and thou shalt be saved." "If that was sound advice then, it is sound advice now," he said. "And Miss Squire says faith is just to believe God is both able and willing to do as he promises." He closed the book with a quick snap, and again knelt by the bedside. "Lord Jesus, I come to thee, and I believe thou canst and that thou wilt save me now," he prayed. He said it as plainly and simply as he might have asked a friend for a book; or, as a child might come to its mother for a glass of water. Then he rose from his knees, and prepared for bed with the air of one who had gotten just what he had asked for. It was a very simple affair, after all; but angels had witnessed the scene, a new name had been written down upon the Book of Life, and all heaven was moved with joy. For is it not written, "There is joy in the presence of the angels of God over one sinner that repenteth?"

CHAPTER IV.

RAY'S CONFESSION OF CHRIST.

The First Church bell tolled loudly for the six o'clock prayer and praise service the next Sunday evening. As the last stroke sounded Mr. Carleton came rapidly in, and took his place at the desk in the main lecture room, looking down with cheerful face at the large congregation before him. How full the room was! Not only the usual attendants, but such a number of unaccustomed ones were there. In the very first seat at the right of the centre aisle sat Ray Branford, and beside him his sister-in-law. In the very first seat on the left was Dr. Gasque and his wife. Back near the door was young Harry Gasque, the dissipated son of the doctor, with quite a crowd of his immediate associates. Then scattered here and there were many of the young people from the Black Forge Mills. Mr. Carleton's heart rejoiced to see them all, and he said to himself, "The cold ice of indifference which has so long surrounded us is surely yielding; now may it melt entirely away under the warm influence of God's love."

He had a way of conducting that hour of service that was peculiarly his own. From the moment he entered the desk he never sat down, but with song book in hand, and Bible in easy reach, he stood marshaling his people throughout the service as a general might marshal his forces. "We will sing 'The light of the World is Jesus,'" he said; and the organist struck the first notes. Then the room rang with a chorus of voices. When three verses of that hymn had been sung, he announced another familiar one, and then another, until fifteen minutes had been spent in singing the praise of God. Scarcely had the last note of the last hymn ended, when a short prayer followed, direct, simple, as though it were conversation with one close at hand, and ready to grant every request. A short Scripture lesson was then impressively read, and another hymn sung. Twenty minutes of the hour was now used. "Now let us have a few brief prayers," he suggested; "who will be the first to lead our thoughts upward to the throne?" One after another the brethren knelt, until twelve short fervent supplications had been offered, amid a stillness which was almost oppressive. Then another hymn was sung, and the pastor announced: "We now have twenty minutes for testimony. Who will be the first to speak of God's love?"

Ray Branford, to the amazement of all, was the first to speak. "I want to tell you to-night," he said, "that I love Jesus. He has forgiven me my sins, and I have consecrated my life to him. Will you pray that in all my discouraging surroundings I may never once dishonor his name?"

The hushed silence that followed was broken by the voice of Dr. Gasque. Stepping to the front of the desk, he turned around and faced the congregation, saying: "My friends, you all know me. You know how for years I have lived among you an ungodly and self-righteous man. I had a Christian father and mother, and for years they prayed for their only son, but he was unsaved. God gave me a dear Christian wife, and I saw before me daily the proofs of Christ's redeeming and sanctifying power; but I still closed my eyes to the truth, and refused to believe. But last Friday evening that boy," pointing to Ray Branford, "asked me a question that broke through the armor of my unbelief and pierced me to the heart. He, as some of you may know, came up to the town after me for a sick neighbor. Not finding me at home, he dropped into your prayer meeting here to pass away the hour until I came. Here words were spoken which God used to touch his heart. He came out from this house stirred to his very soul and got into my buggy, and together we rode toward the Forge.

"'Dr. Gasque, what is it to be a Christian?' he suddenly asked me. I saw he was thoroughly in earnest, and I dared not counsel him wrongly. 'Suppose it was your own boy asking that question?' rang in my ears. I was compelled to be honest, and replied, 'I do not know.'

"His next question staggered me, it was so unexpected. 'If there is anything in Christianity at all,' he asked, 'ought not a man who is constantly with those who are passing into eternity to know something about it himself that he might tell others?' I saw myself and my responsibility to God as never before, and for a time I knew not what to answer. At length I said, condemning myself thereby, 'I suppose he ought.' But the boy had another question ready. 'How would you settle such a question?' he inquired. I thought of my old father's words, and replied: 'I would go directly to Jesus.' Then we parted, but as I bent over the sick man I had been called to see, and realized that no human power could save him, the boy's question came back to me with renewed force. I drove home, but it never left me. I entered my room, but it was with me still. I saw I was a sinner, hopelessly lost without the mercy of Christ. I awoke my wife. I asked her to pray for me, and kneeling there by her side I found peace. I, too, confess here to-night, that I love Christ, and have consecrated my life to him. Pray for me."

Those who have witnessed similar scenes will readily understand the spirit of that meeting for the rest of the hour. Mrs. Casque arose and repeated the divine words: "It shall come to pass, that before they call, I will answer; and while they are yet speaking, I will hear." Then another and another followed until the tolling bell indicated that it was time for the evening preaching service.

"I cannot help feeling that there may be some one here to-night," said Mr. Carleton, in closing, "who may desire Jesus for their friend. If so, will you rise upon your feet." Immediately Ray Branford's sister-in-law arose, saying, briefly: "I want to be a Christian." Was that all? No; away back near the door a young man arose, and in a clear ringing voice, he said: "To-night I believe in a Saviour; to-night for the first time in my life I desire to be a Christian. I have been wild and dissolute and wicked. Is there hope for such a one as I am?" It was Harry Gasque, and the appealing look upon his face touched all who beheld it.

Then Mr. Carleton took those two convicted souls to the mercy seat. Tenderly, lovingly he presented their cases, and asked that for Jesus' sake they might now be forgiven. What if the church bell was tolling for the next service: these two sin-convicted souls hung in the balance, and until they found life he must wrestle with God. Finally they arose from their knees, and the congregation was dismissed, but the son could lay his hand in that of his father and confidently affirm, "Your Saviour is my Saviour too," while the longing, wistful look had left the tear-stained face of the penitent woman, and in its place there had come one of perfect peace.

Of course, that night's incidents were talked about. All Afton was busy with them for the next few days. And just here a strange perverseness of human nature cropped out. There was Doctor Gasque, a man who had not been inside of a meeting house for years; who had been an acknowledged skeptic; who on his own confession had been exceedingly self-righteous; and there was his son Harry, wild, dissolute, and dissipated; yet no one doubted their conversion. "It is so wonderful," they said. "I am so glad for Mrs. Gasque." "What Christians they will make!" "What a help to the First Church!" "What influence they will have!"—and a dozen other equally pleased expressions passed from lip to lip. Nor would I for one moment say they were undeserved. But the Branfords! Well, there were Mr. Carleton and Miss Squire, and old Deacon Blake, and Mr. Bacon and others, who believed that their conversion was real, and hailed with delight what they believed to be an indication that the reformation of the Black Forge people was at hand. There were others, however, good church people, too, who shrugged their shoulders when Ray and his sister-in-law were mentioned, and said: "I presume we must receive them into the church, of course; but they'll never be any help to us, and very likely they will have to be disciplined before a great while." Others shook their heads forebodingly, saying: "If I were Mr. Carleton, I should wait awhile before I was so sure that those Branfords were converted: they are a hard set."

Then there were others who shook out the folds of their silks, and said, complacently:

"Really, I don't know what the First Church is coming to. Mr. Grundy and I don't propose to mix with the Black Forge people. We haven't been accustomed to associate with such people, and if the First Church insists on that rabble coming in, we shall take our letters to the Central Church. Dr. Lightfoot is as fine a preacher as Mr. Carleton, and the people there are so much more select."

Don't think, dear reader, I have exaggerated this thing at all. For a good many years I have been a church member, and acquainted with nearly every phase of Christian work; and I assert, without fear of contradiction, that there is in many of our churches a spirit which seeks after those who may be a financial and social help to the church, while the masses are either neglected or looked upon with disfavor. Many Christians still need a special vision and a voice from heaven, saying: "What God hath cleansed, that call not thou common," before they can understand that "God is no respecter of persons."

In the case of Ray Branford, however it may be elsewhere, these things I have written were actually said. It is a veritable history I am writing. Did Ray know of these things? Yes; there are always some in a community who feel called upon to report to those concerned all they hear about them. Did this drive Ray away from the First Church? No; and for two reasons. There were two traits in his character which enabled him to rise above the most exasperating things said about him. First, he felt so exceedingly unworthy of the gift of salvation, and was so amazed at its bestowment upon him, that he did not wonder that others doubted that he had really received it. Then, too, he had in his make-up a bit of that obstinacy which, when he knew what his duty was, led him, like Luther, to do it, though a thousand popes stood in the way. But this combination of traits is exceedingly rare; and what proved to be an incentive to him has deterred many another from doing what was known to be duty.

The actual result from this display of human prejudice was not, however, so disastrous in other respects as might have been anticipated. Satan sometimes overreaches himself, and it proved to be so in this instance. The sudden manifestation of God's grace on that memorable evening did not as suddenly depart. Rather it increased in power. It pervaded the Sunday-school; it entered the homes of the congregation; it even extended to the Black Forge Mission; and before spring came, more than a hundred had confessed Jesus as Saviour and Lord.

Early in the new year, Ray Branford and others appeared before the First Church committee as candidates for admission to the church. That committee was composed of wise and judicious men—men who loved Christ with all their hearts, and were anxious that all who would might come unto him. They felt, as Ray related his experience, that he gave unmistakable evidence of the Spirit's work in his heart; and without the slightest hesitation they recommended him to the church as one worthy of a place in its membership. When this became known, the tongues of the gossips were again set in motion, and rumor soon had it that, at the preparatory service, opposition would be made to his reception. This was enough to fill the main lecture room to overflowing when that evening came.

Ray's relation of his experience was clear, and to the unprejudiced, convincing; but when he had retired, and opportunity was given for remark, a brother rose, and said:

"I do not want it understood, brethren, that I actually object to this lad, or deny that he is a Christian; but he is young, his surroundings are all against him, and I question whether we had not better wait awhile before we receive him. If he is truly a Christian, it won't make any difference; if he is not, it will be a great deal better to wait." Then he sat down.

Mr. Carleton sprang to his feet.