As for the pulpit, it was "real," without any paint about it, and so neat, and pretty, and graceful, that the girls had exhausted all adjectives on it. And really, the stove-pipe, though it wandered about according to some wild freak that was considered necessary in order to "draw," did not look so objectionable now that it was real Russia; and nothing could glow more brilliantly than the stoves, which smoked no more. Engineer Bud had been a success.

Still, I know that I can not make you realize the difference in that church. Unless you were there on that dreary winter morning when Claire Benedict first looked upon it with utter sinking of heart, and then were there again on that spring morning, and caught the breath of the flowers, and saw the shimmer of awakened life over everything within and without, you will never understand it. Unless, indeed, you look up some other man-forsaken sanctuary, and try the delightful experiment of transformation.

There were those in South Plains who knew and felt the difference.

They gathered softly, the worshipers, the men on tiptoe, though they need not have done that, for the heavy carpet gave back no sound of footfall, but it was one of their ways of expressing admiration and reverence. They gave quick, admiring, amazed glances about them, then riveted their eyes, as the workers had meant they should, on the motto which glowed before them, strung from lamp to lamp in some spirit-like fashion which those unacquainted with the management of silver ware cannot comprehend, and which made the triumphant announcement: "The Lord is in his holy temple." And I tell you that, so much has the outward and tangible to do with our spiritual vision, there were those present who grasped this stupendous fact for the first time.

The organ squeaked no more. It had only been a matter of a drop of oil which quieted that, and yet that congregation had actually sat under its squeak almost for years! So many things in this world squeak for the want of a thoughtful hand to administer a drop of oil!

Then the choir—that almost hardest thing in country or city to manage successfully—had been transformed. There had been no violent wrenches; occasionally it happens that a combination of circumstances bring about unlooked-for and delightful results. The discordant alto had married, bless her, and gone to another town; the flatting tenor had sprained his ankle, poor man, and must needs abide at home. The tremendous bass had that rare quality, common-sense, and discovered on the evening of the concert that South Plains had taken a musical prize, and was himself the one to propose that Miss Benedict and her class should be invited to join the choir; and further, that Miss Benedict should be requested to drill the choir, and had put himself under training, and his voice being really grand, he bade fair, under culture, to become the power in song that God designed.

I do not know whether it was accident, or a blessed design, that the much astonished, much-encouraged, young-old minister, in a new coat which was an Easter gift from the young men of his congregation, read the hymn—

"The Lord reigneth, and this is his holy temple, and I am his chosen mouthpiece to this people: I had almost forgotten it, but it is so." Then when that reconstructed choir rolled out the words, led by the centre voice of exquisite melody and power, the worshipers felt the sentiment of the hymn fill their hearts, and admitted that they did love her gates, and that they must rouse up and show their love as they had not done heretofore.

Ah! there was more in that church that day than new carpet, and new furniture, and paint, and paper, and light and beauty. These were all well enough, and Claire Benedict's sense of the fitness of things rejoiced in them all. But what were they to the thrill in her heart as she heard the minister read among the names announced for reception into the visible communion of the church, that of Hubbard Myers. There were some who did not know to whom the name belonged; and it was not surprising, for Hubbard Myers had been called only Bud for so many years, the wonder was that he remembered his name himself.

There had been great astonishment among some, and not a little shaking of heads, when Bud presented himself as a candidate for church-membership. It had not been supposed that he had intellect enough to understand the meaning of the step. There was close questioning on the part of the minister, not for himself alone, but for the enlightenment of others; but before the examination closed, more than one of the listeners drew out their red handkerchiefs, and blew their noses suspiciously, and at last, one of the most stolid of them remarked:

"It is my opinion, brethren, that the boy has been taught of God, and I think we would do well to accept him without any further delay." And they did.

There were other trophies. Where would be the church of Christ without its living, working members? One who was pledged to prefer Jerusalem above her chief joy, had not been, and in the very nature of the case, could not have been, content with toiling simply for the outward adorning of the temple.

A history of the quiet work which had been done in hearts during that one winter would fill a volume. I have but given you a hint of it here and there. The head of the Church has the complete record. There is perhaps little need that I should try to give you even scattered notes of it. Yet there was one name which made the tears come very near to falling, as Claire listened for it, fearful that it might not come, and at the same moment hopeful for it. It was only a transferral from a church in the city to membership with the one at South Plains, and it was only Alice Ansted. Her parents were not even present in the church. But Claire knew that a visible union with the church of Christ meant to Alice Ansted to-day what it never had before. And she knew that the two girls, Fanny and Ella Ansted, who sat and cried, in the pew beside Alice, were only left out because parental authority had asserted itself, and said they were not to come. Claire knew that they had united themselves with the great Head, and were members of the church in the "Jerusalem which is above and is free." They could afford to bide their time.

And there was another still which gave Claire's heart a peculiar thrill of joy. Not that his name was read, or that many, as yet, knew about Satan's defeat with him. It had been recent, and the public recognition of the fact was yet to come. But the Lord Jesus Christ knew, for he had been the victor.

It was only the night before, as they were about to leave the reconstructed church, and Mary Burton, with a long-drawn breath of repressed excitement, had declared that everything was ready for to-morrow, and that the victory was complete, that Harry Matthews had bent toward Claire and murmured:

"Miss Benedict, there has been another victory. You will know that it is far more wonderful than this. He has 'undertaken' for me."

There had only been time to grasp his hand and flash back an answer from sympathetic eyes, but there was a song in her heart this morning over the news. Occasionally she glanced at Harry, and told herself that she would have known, just to look at him, that the highest experience this life has for us had come to him.

The little church was unusually full on this triumphant morning, and yet most of the faces were known to Claire. Strangers were not frequent at South Plains. Yet there was one, a gentleman, who gave that reverent heed to the service which even among strangers distinguishes those who really join in worship from those who merely look on. This man joined, and with his heart. Claire was sure of it. It was this man that Harry Matthews watched, a satisfied smile on his face the while. Harry could imagine just how surprised the stranger was.

On the evening before, when he had reached his room, after giving his wonderful news to Claire, instead of finding it in darkness, his kerosene lamp had been turned to its highest capacity, and a gentleman sat in front of his little stove, feeding it from time to time, apparently for the sole purpose of brightening the somewhat dismal room.

"Halloo!" had been Harry's greeting.

"Just so," was the quiet response. "You did not know you had company, did you, my boy?"

And then there had been such eager grasping of hands, and such lighting up of faces, as evinced the satisfaction of both parties at meeting. For this was Harry Matthews' favorite uncle, and he must lately have come from the home where Harry's mother waited for him.

Of course there was a high-tide of question and answer at once. It was not until an hour afterward that Harry reached the subject of which he had instantly thought, on seeing his uncle.

"Uncle Harold, didn't you know the Benedicts?"

"What Benedicts?"

"Why, the Boston ones. Sydney L. He failed, and died, less than a year ago, don't you remember?"

"I remember. I knew him well. I met him abroad."

"And didn't you know his daughter?"

"I knew that he had a daughter, and, in fact, I think I saw her once; but we were not acquainted."

"Why, I wonder?"

"Why?" with a slightly-curious laugh. "There might be many reasons, I am sure. Boston spreads over a good deal of ground. Besides, you know I never spent a great deal of time in Boston, and I am not a society man. Why do you ask?"

"No reason in particular; only the lady is here, and I thought if you were old acquaintances, it would be pleasant to meet her."

"Here in South Plains! What in the world is she doing here?"

"Teaching music."

"I wonder if this is where she has hidden herself! I occasionally hear queries as to what has become of her, but I believe I never met a person who knew. No, I don't suppose there would be any mutual pleasure in a meeting. I may be said to be a stranger. I have not the least idea how she looks; and I may never have met her, though I think I did somewhere. I remember having a passing interest in seeing how a daughter of Sydney Benedict would look. He was a grand man, but I suspected that his daughter was a butterfly of fashion. She lived in the very centre of that sort of thing, and her father was supposed to have immense wealth. I suppose she is a poor, crushed little morsel, done up in crape and disappointment. I am always sorry for music-scholars who have to take broken-down ladies for teachers. Still, I don't know but I would like to shake hands with her for her father's sake. Have you met her?"

"I should say I had! but I don't believe you ever have. You couldn't draw such a queer picture of her as that, if you had ever seen her. She doesn't wear crape at all. Somebody told me she did not believe in mourning for people who had gone to heaven; at least, not in putting on black clothes and looking doleful, you know. And as to being crushed! why, uncle Harold, she is the brightest, sweetest, grandest girl I ever heard of in all my life."

"Possible!" said his uncle, with a good-humored laugh. "Why, my boy, she must be several years older than you! What does this mean?"

"Oh, nonsense!" was the impatient reply of the excited young man. "It is just as evident as can be, that you don't know what you are talking about. If you had been here this winter, and watched things work, and known the hand that she had in it all, why—look here! you wait until to-morrow; I can show you a few things, I fancy."

Whereupon he immediately closed his lips; and although his uncle pretended to be extremely curious, and to be unable to wait until morning for light, no hints or questions could draw out further information in the same direction.