“Hello, Bob,” said a voice in the street. “That’s the minister’s hymn.” Groups of men moved over from the grogshop to the chapel door. They collected, and increased in numbers. One man struck into the chorus, on a low bass,—
“Stay near me, O my Saviour.”
Another voice joined; and another. Up and down the street the men took the music up. From Angel Alley without, and Christlove within, the voices of the people met and mingled in “the parson’s hymn.”
The Professor of Theology glanced at the illuminated words above his head.
“It is growing chilly. I am sure you will take cold,” complained his wife. With bared, gray head the Professor walked out of Angel Alley, and his old wife clung silently to his arm. She felt that this was one of the moments when Mr. Carruth should not be spoken to.
Bayard brought Helen home as he had promised; and it was but a little beyond the half of the hour when his dory bumped against the float. He rowed her over the dim harbor with long, skillful strokes; Helen fancied that they were not as strong as they might have been; he seemed to her almost exhausted. They had exchanged but a few words. Midway of the harbor she had said abruptly,—
“Mr. Bayard, I cannot keep it to myself! I must tell you how what you said this evening on the beach—how that service made me feel.”
“Don’t!” said Bayard quickly. Helen shrank back into the stern of the dory; she felt, for the moment, terribly wounded.
“Forgive me!” he pleaded. “I didn’t feel as if I could bear it—that’s all.”
“I am not in the habit of making a fool of myself over ministers,” replied Helen hotly. “I never told one I liked his sermon, yet, in all my life. I was going to say—I meant to say—I will say!” she cried, sitting up very straight, “Mr. Bayard, you are better than I am; truly, infinitely, solemnly better. I’ve never even tried to be what you are. You’ve done me good, as well as Job, and Lena, and the rest. I won’t go away without saying it,—and I’m going away this week.... There!”