It was an April night, and sea and sky were soft in Windover.
A stranger stood in Angel Alley hesitating at a door, which bore above its open welcome these seven words:—
“The Church of the Love of Christ.”
“What goes on here?” the gentleman asked of a bystander.
“Better things than ever went on here before,” was the reply. “They’ve got a man up there. He ain’t no dummy in a minister’s choker.”
The stranger put another question.
“Well,” came the cordial answer, “he has several names in Angel Alley: fisherman’s friend is one of the most pop’lar. Some calls him the gospel cap’n. There’s those that prefers jest to say, the new minister. There’s one name he don’t go by very often, and that’s the Reverend Bayard.”
“He has no right to the title,” murmured the stranger.
“What’s that?” interposed the other quickly. The stranger made no reply.
“Some call him the Christ’s Rest man,” proceeded the bystander affably.