yielding and billowy person; and Mrs. Stewart Duff, an infant of only a
few weeks upon her knee accounting sufficiently for the paleness of
her sweet face, and two or three other women with their small children
filling the bench that ran along the wall.

"Say! look at Harry Hobbs," said Pat McCann to his friend.

Upon the stove, which in summer was relegated to the corner of the room,
sat Harry Hobbs, a man of any age from his appearance, thin and wiry,
with keen, darting eyes, which now, however, were fastened upon the
preacher. All other eyes were, too. Even the smallest of the children
seated on the front bench were gazing with mouths wide open, as if
fascinated, upon the preacher who, moving up and down with quick, lithe
steps, was telling them a story. A wonderful story, too, it seemed, the
wonder of it apparent in the riveted eyes and fixed faces. It was
the immortal story, matchless in the language, of Joseph, the Hebrew
shepherd boy, who, sold into slavery by his brethren, became prime
minister of the mighty empire of Egypt. The voice tone of the minister,
now clear and high, now low and soft, vibrating like the deeper notes
of the 'cello, was made for story telling. Changing with every changing
emotion, it formed an exquisite medium to the hearts of the listeners
for the exquisite music of the tale.

The story was approaching its climactic denouement; the rapturous
moment of the younger brother's revealing was at hand; Judah, the
older brother, was now holding the centre of the stage and making that
thrilling appeal, than which nothing more moving is to be found in our
English speech. The preacher's voice was throbbing with all the
pathos of the tale. Motionless, the little group hung hard upon the
story-teller, when the door opened quickly, a red head appeared, a