The warm, bright sun of early April made the Sabbath morning beautiful. Here and there patches of dainty green could be seen, and in some sheltered, sunny spots the daring bloom of the crocus had thrust itself into view—purple, yellow, and white.

On that day there was no happier home in the world than the parsonage. Mr. Flint had fully recovered; his wife had returned and was bustling nervously about trying to make up for lost time. Barbara and Will were there, and, in their undemonstrative way, very happy.

"What a beautiful morning for all of us," said Mr. Flint, as he got up from the breakfast-table and went to the window. "Spring has come without—and within. Ah! if I had known, if I had been awakened earlier in life—"

Barbara left her place at the table, ran quickly to him, and gently placed her fingers on his lips.

"Remember, you promised," she said, smilingly.

"Yes, Barbara, but I expect to break my promise many—many times. When a man has been born again how can you expect him to be silent? The world is all new to me, Barbara. Try to imagine what I have lost in my narrow, high-walled life. I must see everything; I must babble like a child if I will. Yet you, Barbara, modest girl that you are,—the one who saved my body, and put peace into my soul,—demand that I keep silence." Mr. Flint spoke in a half-serious, half-humourous way, but they understood, and rejoiced at the change in his manner—and the man.

Barbara and Mrs. Flint began clearing the table, the minister retired to his study, while Will paced the sitting-room, deep in thought. When the door-bell rang a moment later Will answered its summons. It was Mrs. Stout, out of breath and flushed by her walk, but smiling.

"Mornin', Willie," she puffed.

"Good morning, Mrs. Stout; come in."

"Ain't late, am I?" she asked, anxiously, as she stepped into the hall and sat down in the nearest chair.

"Oh, no."

"What a lovely mornin' to get married. Now if 'twas me I'd—"

"Come right in to the sitting-room," called Mrs. Flint, from the kitchen.

"All right," said Mrs. Stout, as she got up to welcome Barbara, who came out to meet her. "I just set down for a minute to ketch my breath. Well, Barbara Wallace, if you ain't lookin' fine for a woman that's been shut up in the house for weeks." Then Mrs. Stout shook her finger at Will and added: "Willie Flint, you're a lucky man."

"I know it, Mrs. Stout," laughed Will, as they went into the sitting-room. Just then Mrs. Flint appeared and shook hands cordially with Mrs. Stout.

"You will excuse me for coming this way, apron and all," she said, "but I was washing dishes, and—"

"Good land! yes, Mis' Flint. My, but you're lookin' better'n you have in years. And if here ain't Mr. Flint himself!" exclaimed Mrs. Stout, as the parson appeared in the doorway, and then hastened toward her with outstretched hand. "Mr. Flint," continued Mrs. Stout, as she shook his hand vigorously, "I was never so glad to see you before in all my life."

"And I can truly say the same of you, Mrs. Stout," laughed the parson.

"Well, forgive and forget, says I," said Mrs. Stout, quickly.

"Amen," replied Mr. Flint.

"Oh, dear!" exclaimed Mrs. Flint, "I just can't finish those dishes. I—"

"Let 'em go," said Mrs. Stout; "nobody's s'posed to wash dishes when there's a weddin' comin' off in a few minutes, your own son's, too, and the best, sweetest woman in the whole wide world." And to prove that she meant every word she put her arms around Barbara and kissed the cheeks that grew pink with pleasure and modesty.

"And in you they have one of the best, truest friends possible," Barbara replied.

"Nonsense," said Mrs. Stout, who was modest herself.

"No nonsense about it," Mr. Flint interposed, earnestly. "If it had not been for you and your kindness, where would we all be now?"

"Oh, well," replied Mrs. Stout, "you'd prob'ly been alive just the same."

"Ah, Mrs. Stout, but what is life without sunshine in our hearts? Barbara not only nursed me back to life—she showed me how to live. And you were her friend when all others failed, you saved her for the task."

"Well," sighed Mrs. Stout, resignedly, "I done what I thought was best."

"And God bless you for it," replied the minister, fervently. As he spoke the church-bell rang out on the warm spring air. He turned to Barbara and took her hand. "Barbara, dear, we have but a few moments—where shall it be?"

"Here," she said, "where the sun is brightest."

Barbara and Will, with clasped hands, stood near a window where the morning light lit up their bright young faces—faces filled with love and hope. The simple service—a promise and a prayer—was soon over. The tears were streaming down Mrs. Flint's cheeks as she greeted her son and his bride. Mrs. Stout's eyes, too, were moist, though she would have denied it. The church-bell was tolling. Mr. Flint had another duty to perform, and was impatiently eager to be about it.

"Come," he said, "we must be going."

"Do give us time to get straightened out," replied Mrs. Stout. "Us women folks can't go to a weddin' and then rush off to church in a minute, can we, Mis' Flint?"

Poor Mrs. Flint, she was so excited that, without Mrs. Stout's assistance, she could not get her bonnet on straight. In a few minutes they were ready, however, and left the house together on their way across the road to the church.

As Barbara and Will, followed by Mrs. Flint and Mrs. Stout, walked up the aisle, every eye in the crowded church was fixed upon them. Were they married? No one knew. Sam Billings had told all that he knew, according to Will's instructions, but none were the wiser for all that.

That part of the service preceding the sermon was rushed, and the minister as well as the congregation assisted in the process. When the last note of the hymn had died away, and the rustling of the people sitting and making themselves comfortable had ceased, Mr. Flint left his seat, advanced quickly to the desk, and opened the large Bible. He turned the pages for a moment, and then looked up and repeated rather than read from the Book of Proverbs: "Be not a witness against thy neighbour without cause; and deceive not with thy lips." Then he closed the book and walked slowly to the front of the platform.

"Friends," he began, in a quiet tone, so unlike his former manner that all wondered at it, "for a time God saw fit to take me from you. It is appropriate that at this season of the year, when our part of the world is bursting forth into joyous, beautiful life, that He should send back, not the man you once knew, but another, one whose life is beginning anew like nature." He continued at length on the "new life" that had come to him. Suddenly he paused, and when he spoke again quoted these words: "A good name is to be chosen rather than great riches." He moved about nervously for a moment before continuing. "A few weeks ago the innocent act of a good woman caused her to be reviled, shunned, and turned away from our doors. Of those who so harmed her I was the chief offender. Every word, every act, was a cruel thrust, the torture of which none of us can wholly appreciate. And then she came when disease—the most loathsome—had stricken me, when all others shunned even the house in which I lay, she came and brought me back to life. And then—then she saved my soul!" The minister's face was pale; he made no gestures; he did not raise his voice; but his earnestness and remorse were unmistakable. "And my son," he continued, "he whom I should have guided, I have wronged by living a narrow, loveless life." Thus, for an hour he talked about the "new life," love, and remorse. But his closing words interested many of his congregation more than those that had preceded them.

"The son whom I have wronged, and the woman sent by God, have I this day made one," he said, and there was triumphant joy in his voice.

Barbara's friends—everybody was her friend now—kept their places with difficulty during the closing hymn and the benediction. As it was, they failed to give Mr. Flint time for an appropriate "Amen," before they rushed upon Barbara and Will, and almost suffocated them with sweet words.

When the last one had gone, Barbara, with the good wishes of everybody ringing in her ears, turned to Mr. Flint, and her eyes filled with tears.

"I—I don't deserve it, I—" she began, but he gently interrupted her.

"Yes, Barbara, every word is true." And then turning to Will asked, "Do you understand now, Will?"

"Yes, father," was the reply, and the two men clasped hands.

"Barbara," said Mr. Flint, as they were walking toward the door, "there is one word that I long to hear you say, I must hear it, you must not deny me any longer." Barbara stopped, she did not understand. "It is the one word from your lips that will fill my cup of happiness to the brim," added the minister, feelingly. "Can't you guess?"

A light came into Barbara's eyes, and smiling through her tears she said:

"Father."