had, doubtless, spoken in an unknown tongue to scores of his hearers.
Now he turned the key on his elegant essays, and, asking the Lord for
a message, he was trying to tell it with no "great swelling words,"
but in humility and plainness of speech, holding up Christ, hiding
himself, intent only on saving souls.

Satan had told him before that the world and some Christians would
count his preaching "not deep;" now his own wife had repeated the
thought. He had been so happy in his work, and he longed to throw
himself into it with nothing to come between him and "This one thing
I do." But daily trials on account of one who should have been his
greatest helper, saddened him, so that much of his labour was
mechanical, and he carried a heavy burden. The anxiety was
continuous, for he was well aware that many busy tongues were
censuring her, while kindlier critics were grieved at her course.

At rare intervals she attended the ladies' meetings, but no
persuasions could induce her to take any part in them. She visited
those whom she fancied, and persistently refused to visit others;
thus he laboured under constant embarrassment, and was in a chronic
state of apology for her. And yet Mrs. Eldred could make herself the
most fascinating of beings. There were evenings when she chose to
shine at home. Then she would with artistic skill brighten the room,
and beguile her husband from his books, and the time would go on
wings, as they read and discussed a new book, and sung together their
old and new songs. At such times the careworn minister forgot that
any clouds obscured his sky.

One evening Mrs. Eldred entered her husband's study, resplendent in
white satin and diamonds, saying:--