to the raw every Sunday.

The old clergyman knew very little about music, but he remembered that
his ear had been uncomfortably jarred by sounds from the choir, and that
he had turned once and looked at them, and wondered if some one had made
a mistake, and who it was. It must be, then, that dear Miss Barlow, who
had sung so faithfully in St. John's for twenty-five years, was perhaps
growing old. But how could he tell her so; how could he deal such a blow
to her kind heart, her simple pride and interest in her work? He was
growing old, too.

His sensitive mouth carved downward as he stared into the smoldering
fire, and let himself, for this one time out of many times he had
resisted, face the facts. It was not Miss Barlow and the poor music; it
was not that the church was badly heated, as one of the ex-pewholders
had said, nor that it was badly situated, as another had claimed; it was
something of deeper, wider significance, a broken foundation, that made
the ugly, widening crack all through the height of the tower. It was
his own inefficiency. The church was going steadily down, and he was
powerless to lift it. His old enthusiasm, devotion, confidence--what had
become of them? They seemed to have slipped by slow degrees, through the
unsuccessful years, out of his soul, and in their place was a dull
distrust of himself; almost--God forgive him--distrust in God's
kindness. He had worked with his might all the years of his life, and
what he had to show for it was a poor, lukewarm parish, a diminished
congregation, debt--to put it in one dreadful word, failure!

[Illustration: He stared into the smoldering fire.]

By the pitiless searchlight of hopelessness, he saw himself for the