of the helpless hands in his. Mrs. Davis put down her sewing, and watched
him.

Perhaps the preacher prayed, as he knelt there, though she could not hear
him; but when he rose and said good-night, she could see his sad eyes
full of trouble which she could not understand, a pity beyond her
comprehension.

Molly came sidling up to her protector, as he stood a moment in the
doorway, and, taking his hand in hers, stroked it softly.

"I love you, preacher," she said, "'cause you're good."

John's face brightened with a sudden smile; the love of little children
was a great joy to him, and the touch of these small hands gave him the
indefinable comfort of hope. God, who had made the sweetness of
childhood, would be merciful to his own children. He would give them
time, He would not withdraw the day of grace; surely Tom Davis's soul
would yet be saved. There was a subtle thought below this of hope that
for Helen, too, the day of grace might be prolonged, but he did not
realize this himself; he did not know that he feared for one moment that
she might not soon accept the truth. He was confident, he thought, of
her, and yet more confident of the constraining power of the truth
itself.

He looked down at Molly, and put his hand gently on her yellow head.
"Be a good girl, my little Molly;" then, with a quiet blessing upon the
dreary home, he turned away.

But what Mrs. Davis had said of going to church to hear a sermon on hell,