together, and his eyes gazed into vacancy from under the broad
brim. De Courcy had removed his hat on entering the house, but,
meeting his father's eyes, replaced it suddenly, with a slight
blush.

When Simon Pennock and Ruth Treadwell had spoken the thoughts which
had come to them in the stillness, the strange Friend arose.
Slowly, with frequent pauses, as if waiting for the guidance of the
Spirit, and with that inward voice which falls so naturally into
the measure of a chant, he urged upon his hearers the necessity of
seeking the Light and walking therein. He did not always employ
the customary phrases, but neither did he seem to speak the lower
language of logic and reason; while his tones were so full and
mellow that they gave, with every slowly modulated sentence, a
fresh satisfaction to the ear. Even his broad a's and the strong
roll of his r's verified the rumor of his foreign birth, did not
detract from the authority of his words. The doubts which had
preceded him somehow melted away in his presence, and he came
forth, after the meeting had been dissolved by the shaking of
hands, an accepted tenant of the high seat.

That evening, the family were alone in their new home. The plain
rush-bottomed chairs and sober carpet, in contrast with the dark,
solid mahogany table, and the silver branched candle-stick which
stood upon it, hinted of former wealth and present loss; and
something of the same contrast was reflected in the habits of the
inmates. While the father, seated in a stately arm-chair, read
aloud to his wife and children, Sylvia's eyes rested on a guitar-
case in the corner, and her fingers absently adjusted
themselves to the imaginary frets. De Courcy twisted his neck as