They had a charming walk through the woods and up the little stream known as the Cedar Run. It was a favourite exploit to scramble up the rocky bed and between the high banks through which the stream forced its way, but to-day they kept to the road, which ran on the top of the cliff. Arriving in good time, they found the school-house well filled.
"How shall we get in?" asked Marion, in a low voice. "We shall be regularly crowded."
"So much the better," answered Harry. "It is always a great point gained to have people sitting close together. It is regularly dispiriting to have a meeting in a room that is twice too large. But you'll find more room than you think. The men always stand outside till service begins."
The house was certainly well filled, but the girls found tolerably comfortable places by the open window. Harry took his place on the platform, behind the teacher's table, looking even more youthful than usual. He bent his head for a time in silent prayer, and Marion saw that both the boys and Stanley were engaged in the same way. A curious feeling of hushed expectation came over her such as she had never felt before; and for once forgetting herself, she prayed earnestly that Harry might have the help he needed. It was one of the few prayers that Marion had ever uttered which had no reference to herself.
Presently, Harry stood up and opened the meeting by giving out a familiar hymn. Without a moment's hesitation, Stanley's clear, cultivated voice struck up the tune. The boys fell in and were joined by one and another of the congregation, till at last the singing became general. Then Harry read a chapter from the gospel and offered a prayer.
"How composed he is!" said Marion to herself. "He does not seem to think of himself at all. I wonder if that is the reason?"
After the second hymn, Harry invited some one to speak. There was a little silence, and then an old farmer arose and said a few words relative to the chapter which had been read. He was followed by another, and then came another prayer. Then came one of those silences which are so much dreaded by some conductors of meetings, but which often seem to me to be fuller of meaning and of refreshment than any spoken words. It was broken by the voice of a man from near the door:
"I wish the friends here would pray for me. My wife's a Christian woman, and so is my poor girl. I thought I was a Christian myself once, but—" His voice grew husky and broke. "Anyhow, I was taught to believe that prayers brought down blessings, and I want you all to pray for me and poor Mary."
There was another short silence, which was broken this time, to Marion's surprise, by Bram. His prayer was short and to the point. The first speaker followed, and then Stanley began singing "Alas, and did my Saviour bleed?" to the old sacred tune of "Ortonville." (Will any tunes have the same sacredness to the coming generation that these old tunes have to us?)
The man who had asked for prayers had his head bowed on his hands, and was sobbing like a child.