sat on the side bench beside his mother. The boy was Lawrence Gwynne.

"Take these," said the man, "and distribute them, please."

Lawrence taken thus by surprise paled, then flushed a quick red. He
glanced up at his mother and at her slight nod took the books and
distributed them among the audience on one side of the room while the
evangelist took the other. As the lad passed from bench to bench with
his books he was greeted with jocular and slightly jeering remarks in
undertone by the younger members of the company, which had the effect
of obviously increasing the ineptitude of his thin nervous fingers,
but could not quite dispel the whimsical smile that lingered about the
corners of his mouth and glanced from the corners of his grey-blue eyes.

The meeting opened with the singing of a popular hymn which carried a
refrain catchy enough but running to doggerel. Another hymn followed and
another. Then abruptly the evangelist announced,

"Now we shall have a truly GREAT hymn, a hymn you must sing in a truly
great way, in what we call the grand style, number three hundred and
sixty-seven."

Then in a voice, deep, thrilling, vibrant with a noble emotion, he read
the words:


"When I survey the wondrous cross
On which the Prince of Glory died,
My richest gain I count but loss,
And pour contempt on all my pride."