tell. As she sat on the piazza, looking down into the garden, the gate
opened and a young man entered,--the Rev. John Leslie, a clergyman who
had recently come to Westerton to take charge of a new church in the
suburbs, a struggling little missionary chapel, where it required a
large faith to see light ahead in the daily toil and slow results. Mr.
Leslie caught the shimmer of Sibyl's gray dress under the arbor, and
turning off to the right through a box-bordered path, he made his way
to her side and seated himself on the bench. Aunt Faith could not hear
their conversation, for the old-fashioned garden was large and wide,
but now and then she caught the tones of the young man's earnest
voice, although Sibyl's replies were inaudible, for she possessed that
excellent thing in woman, a clear, low voice.

John Leslie was poor. He had only his salary, and that was but scanty.
Energetic and enthusiastic, he loved his work, and his whole soul was
in it. He was no plodding laborer, who had taken the field because it
happened to be nearest to him; he was no loiterer, who had entered the
field because he thought it would give him a larger chance for
idleness than the close-drawn ranks of business life. He had felt the
inward call which is given to but few, and he obeyed it instantly. To
him the world was literally a harvest field, and he, one of the hard
working laborers; he had no worldly ambition; he looked upon life with
the eyes or a true Christian; his little chapel was as much to him as
a large city church, influential and wealthy, could have been, as he
loved his small and somewhat uninteresting congregation with his whole
heart. Older men called him an enthusiast. Would that the world held
more enthusiasts like him; men who have forsaken all to follow Him,
men to whom the whole world and its riches are as nothing compared to
the souls waiting to hear the tidings of salvation. For even in
Christian America, there are in all our streets souls who have not