It was a mission hymn, sung to a wild, irregular tune. I daresay I
should have smiled if I had heard it anywhere else, but it was no
laughing matter that morning. As I looked at the brown fishermen who had
taken off their oilskin caps, as I glanced at the earnest face of the
preacher, as I noticed how even children, like little Marjorie beside
me, were singing with all their heart and soul the simple plaintive
words, I felt strangely solemnized.

Then came the prayer, and I felt as he prayed that One whom we could not
see was standing amongst us. It was a very simple prayer, but it was the
outpouring of his heart to God, and many a low Amen broke from the lips
of the fishermen as their hearts went with his.

The sermon followed. Shall I call it a sermon? It was more an appeal
than a sermon, or even an address. There was no attempt at style, there
were no long words or stilted sentences; it was exactly what his prayer
had been, words spoken out of the abundance of his earnest heart. The
prayer had contained the outpouring of his soul to his God in heaven;
the words, to which we listened afterwards contained the outpouring of
his soul to us, his brothers and sisters on earth.

There was a great hush over the congregation whilst he spoke. The
mothers quieted their babes, the children sat with their eyes fixed on
the speaker; even those visitors who had been on the outskirts of the
crowd drew near to listen.

'What are you, dear friends?' he began; 'that is our subject to-day.
What are you? How many different answers I hear you make, as you answer
my question in your hearts!'