So complete, now, was his forgetfulness of self, of his future, of the irrevocable consequences of the step he had taken, that it was only gradually he became aware that some one was standing near him, and with a start he recognized McCrae.
"There are some waiting to speak to ye," his assistant said.
"Oh!" Hodder exclaimed. He began, mechanically, to divest himself of his surplice. McCrae stood by.
"I'd like to say a word, first—if ye don't mind—" he began.
The rector looked at him quickly.
"I'd like just to thank ye for that sermon—I can say no more now," said
McCrae; he turned away, and left the room abruptly.
This characteristic tribute from the inarticulate, loyal Scotchman left him tingling . . . . He made his way to the door and saw the people in the choir room, standing silently, in groups, looking toward him. Some one spoke to him, and he recognized Eleanor Goodrich.
"We couldn't help coming, Mr. Hodder—just to tell you how much we admire you. It was wonderful, what you said."
He grew hot with gratitude, with thankfulness that there were some who understood—and that this woman was among them, and her husband . . . Phil Goodrich took him by the hand.
"I can understand that kind of religion," he said. "And, if necessary,
I can fight for it. I have come to enlist."