Thus petitioned, John, roused from his bewilderment, put forth his hand for the proffered card, because for the moment he could not decide what else to do.
Then Estelle, her mission accomplished and her embarrassment great, flitted away from him around the corner. "What a strange-acting fellow!" was her comment. "How he did stare! One would suppose he had never seen a lady before. Dear me! He looks as though he needed a friend. Somehow I can't help feeling sorry for him. I really hope he will go to the meeting; but of course he won't." And Estelle Barrows actually realized that for such a dreary, friendless-looking person as he the love of Christ would be a great transformation. She did not mean that she, Estelle Barrows, in her beauty and purity, surrounded by the safeguards of her high position, had no need of Christ; neither did she realize that this was the logical conclusion of her reasoning.
"What in the name of common sense has got into all the people to-day? They are running wild on cards." This was John Morgan's comment. He was ashamed and vexed to think he had so forgotten his sullenness and indifference as to stare at the fair young face. He read the card carefully, more to get away from his present thoughts than from any interest in it; but the verse on the reverse side held his attention for a few minutes, from the fact that the words were the very same as those on the card given him by the old lady who had supplied his breakfast. It struck him as a strange coincidence. Presently he thrust the bit of pasteboard into his pocket, and dismissed the incident from his mind.
Not again did it recur to him until he was passing, during that same evening, a brightly-lighted building, from whence there issued sounds of music. Something in the strains recalled, he knew not how or why, the incident of the morning and the card of invitation. "I wonder if this is the place?" he queried. "It would be rather queer if I had blundered on the very building, without the least notion of doing any such thing." He paused before the door, listening to the roll of the organ as it sounded on the quiet air. "That organ doesn't squeak, anyhow," he said grimly, recalling the organ scene in the old church at home, and Louise's pleasure in its improved condition after he had taken hold of it. Thoughts of her suggested the card again, and he brought it forth from his pocket, and by the light of a friendly lamp compared the name on the card with the name on the building before him. Yes, they agreed; chance or Providence, according as you are accustomed to view these matters, had led him to the very spot. Still he had no intention of going in. "Pretty-looking object I am to go to church," he said, surveying himself critically, something between a smile and a sneer on his face. "I would create a sensation, I fancy. I wonder if the bit of silk and lace that gave me the card is in there? And I wonder if she expects to see me? And I wonder where I have seen her before, and why her face haunts me?"
The organ had been silent for some minutes; now it rolled forth its notes again, and voices, that to John seemed of unearthly sweetness, rang out on the quiet:—
"Come home! Come home! You are weary at heart;
And the way has been long,
And so lonely and wild!
Oh, prodigal child, come home! Oh, come home!"
Was John Morgan homesick? He would have scorned the thought. Yet at the sound of these tender words a strange choking sensation came over him, and something very like a mist filled his eyes. He felt, rather than realized, how long and lonely and wild the way had been; still he had no intention of going in. He would step nearer and listen to that music; those voices were unlike anything he had ever heard before. He drew nearer under the light of the hall lamp. He could see into the church. The doors stood invitingly open; the aisles even were full. Some were standing, not well-dressed people all of them, by any means; but some were so roughly clad that even he would not attract attention by the contrast. A young man, well-dressed, with an open hymn-book in his hand, stood by the door, almost in the hall. He turned suddenly, and his eyes rested on John; he beckoned him forward, then stepped toward him.
"Come right in, my friend; we can find standing-room for you, and the sermon is just about to commence."
"I'm not dressed for such places," said John, imagining that he spoke firmly.
"Oh, never mind the dress; that is not of the least consequence; there are plenty of men in here in their rough working-clothes. Come right in."