had all those feelings. They had entered into the very substance of
his thought; it might have been all in a few seconds of time, but he
had been conscious of defining his position and his emotions as well
as if he had held a soliloquy, and his delivery partook of the
thrill of deep personal satisfaction.

The sermon was interesting. It was full of striking sentences. They
would have commanded attention printed. Spoken with the passion of a
dramatic utterance that had the good taste never to offend with a
suspicion of ranting or declamation, they were very effective. If
the Rev. Henry Maxwell that morning felt satisfied with the
conditions of his pastorate, the First Church also had a similar
feeling as it congratulated itself on the presence in the pulpit of
this scholarly, refined, somewhat striking face and figure,
preaching with such animation and freedom from all vulgar, noisy or
disagreeable mannerism.

Suddenly, into the midst of this perfect accord and concord between
preacher and audience, there came a very remarkable interruption. It
would be difficult to indicate the extent of the shock which this
interruption measured. It was so unexpected, so entirely contrary to
any thought of any person present that it offered no room for
argument or, for the time being, of resistance.

The sermon had come to a close. Mr. Maxwell had just turned the half
of the big Bible over upon his manuscript and was about to sit down
as the quartet prepared to arise to sing the closing selection,

"All for Jesus, all for Jesus,
All my being's ransomed powers..."