which, for one last mighty effort, has been laid a coal from off the altar of the great High Priest.
“Silent Night! Holy night!
Darkness flies, all is light!
Shepherds hear the angels sing—
Hallelujah! hail the king!
Jesus Christ is here!”
X
George Tomlinson came heavily out of his pew. He had at last succeeded in getting rid of the frog in his throat—or thought he had. It had occurred to him that perhaps he ought to go up and speak to Elder Blake—now sitting quietly in his chair, with William Sewall bending over him—though he didn’t know exactly what to say that would seem adequate to the occasion.