The first Sunday that Angus McRae drove along the lake shore and up to the church with Lawyer Ed’s partner sitting at his side, he was praying, all the way, to be delivered from the sin of pride.  They left Aunt Kirsty at home as usual, with her Bible and her hymn-book, for the poor lady had grown so stout that she could not be lifted into buggy or boat or conveyance of any kind.  They started early, but stopped so often on the road that they were none the earlier in arriving.  For Angus must needs pause at the McDuff home, to see that young Peter was ready for church, and that old Peter was thoroughly sobered.  And there was a huge bouquet of Aunt Kirsty’s asters to be left at Billy Perkins’s for the little girl who was sick.  There were sounds of strife in Mike Cassidy’s home too, and Angus dismounted and went in to reason with Mike and the wife on the incongruity of throwing the dishes at each other, when they had spent the morning at mass.

So when the Good Samaritan had attended to all on the Jericho Road there was not much time left, and the church bells were ringing when they drove under the green tunnel of Elm Street; the Anglican, high, resonant and silvery, the Presbyterian, with a slow, deep boom, and between the two, and harmonising with both, the mellow, even roll of the Methodist bell.  The call of the bells was being given a generous obedience, for already the streets were crowded with people.  From the hills to the north and the west, from the level plain to the south they came, on foot, and in buggies.  Even the people who lived across the lake or away down the shore were there, some having crossed the water in boats or launches.  This means of conveyance, however, was regarded with some disfavour, as it too perilously resembled Sunday boating.  The matter had even been brought up in the session by Mr. McPherson, who declared he objected to it, for there was no good reason why Christian people could not walk on the earth the Almighty had provided for them, on the Sabbath day.

Roderick put away the horse into the shed, smiling tenderly when he found his father waiting at the gate for him.  He wanted to walk around to the church door with his boy, so that they might meet his friends together.  They were received in a manner worthy of the occasion, for the four elders who were ushering all left their posts and came forward to greet Angus McRae, knowing something of what a great day in his life this Sabbath was.  J. P. Thornton and Jock McPherson ushered on one side of the church, Lawyer Ed and Captain McTavish on the other, a very fitting arrangement, which mingled the old and the new schools.  Only Lawyer Ed could never be kept in his own place, but ran all over the church and ushered wheresoever he pleased.

The elders of Algonquin Presbyterian church were at their best when showing the people to their seats on a Sabbath morning.  Each man did it in a truly characteristic manner.  Captain Jimmie received the worshippers in a breezy fashion, as though the church were the Inverness and he were calling every one to come aboard and have a bit run on the lake and a cup-a-tea, whatever.  Mr. McPherson shook hands warmly with the old folk, but kept the young people in their places, and well did every youngster know that did he not conduct himself in the sanctuary with becoming propriety, the cane the elder carried would likely come rapping down smartly on his unrighteous knuckles.  J. P. Thornton’s welcome was kindly but stately.  He had grown stout and slightly pompous-looking during the passing years, and his fine, well-dressed figure lent quite an air of dignity to the whole church.  But Lawyer Ed, ushering a stranger into the church, was a heart-warming sight.  He seemed made for the part.  He met one half-way down the steps with outstretched hands, marched him to the best seat in the place, even if he had to dislodge one of the leading families to do it, thrust a Bible and a hymn-book into his hand, and enquired if he were sure he would be comfortable, all in a manner that made the newcomer feel as if the Algonquin church had been erected, a minister and ciders appointed, and a congregation assembled all for the express purpose of edifying him on this particular Sabbath morning.

He captured Angus McRae and showed him to his seat this morning with a happy bustle, for his pride and joy in the Lad’s return was only second to his own father’s.  Roderick sat beside his father in their old pew near the rear of the church, gazing about him happily at the familiar scene.  The people were filling up the aisles, with a soft hushed rustle.  There was Fred Hamilton and his father, and Dr. Archie Blair and his family.  Dr. Blair was rarely too busy to get to church on a Sunday morning, though he made a loud pretence of being very irreligious.  It was rumoured that he carried a volume of Burns to church in his pocket instead of a Bible, a tale which the Doctor enjoyed immensely and took care not to contradict.  There was a silken rustle at Roderick’s right hand, a breath of perfume, and Leslie Graham, in a wonderful rose silk dress and big plumed hat, came up the aisle, followed by her father and mother.  The Grahams were the most fashionable people in the church, and Mr. Graham was the only man who wore a high silk hat.  He had been the first to wear the frock coat, but while many had followed his example in this regard, he was the only man who had, as yet, gone the length of the silk hat.  Of course, Doctor Leslie had one, but every one felt that it was quite correct for a minister to wear such a thing.  It was part of the clerical garb, and anyway he wore it only at weddings and funerals, showing it belonged to the office, rather than to the man.  So Alexander Graham’s millinery was looked upon with some disfavour.  He was a quiet man though, sensitive and retiring, and not given to vain display, and people felt that the sin of the silk hat very likely lay at the door of his fashionable wife and daughter.

The Grahams were no sooner seated than Leslie turned her handsome head, and glancing across the church towards Roderick, gave him a brilliant smile.  But the young man did not catch the gracious favour; he was looking just then at a group passing up the aisle to a seat almost in front of him; Grandma Armstrong moving very slowly on her eldest daughter’s arm, Miss Annabel in a youthful blue silk dress, and behind them a girlish figure in a white gown with a wealth of shining hair gleaming from beneath her wide hat.

Helen Murray had come to church this first Sunday with some fear.  Her father’s voice spoke to her yet in every minister’s tones, and the place and the hour were all calculated to bring up memories hard to bear in public.  She was just seated between Grandma and Miss Annabel when the former pulled her sleeve and enquired if she did not think the new gladiators very pretty.  The girl followed the old lady’s eyes and saw they were indicating the shiny brass electroliers suspended from the ceiling.  In happier days Helen had found laughter very easy.  Her sense of humour had not been deadened by sorrow, it was only in abeyance, and now she felt it stirring into life.  The little incident made her look around with interest.  Certainly the Algonquin church was not a place calculated to make one indulge in melancholy.  The Presbyterian congregation was a virile one, bright and friendly and full of energy, and with very few exceptions, every one was at least fairly well off.  With the aid of a generous expenditure of money they had expressed their congregational life in the decoration of the church; so the place was comfortable and well lighted, and exceedingly bright in colouring.  Around three sides ran a gallery with an ornamental railing, tinted pink.  The walls were the same colour, except for a bright green dado beneath the gallery, and the vaulted ceiling was decorated with big bouquets of flowers in a shade of pink and green slightly deeper than the walls and the dado.  The carpet and the cushions-every inch of the floor was carpeted and every pew cushioned-were a warm bright crimson to match the organ pipes.  The high Gothic windows were of brilliant stained glass, which, when the morning sun shone, threw a riot of colour over the worshippers.  And indeed everything was warm and bright and shining, from the glittering new electroliers suspended from the pink ceiling, to the crimson baize doors which swung inward so hospitably at one’s approach.

The church had been slowly filling, the choir filed into their places, the organ stopped playing Cavalleria Rusticana, a hush fell over the place and Doctor Leslie, his white hair and black gown passing through the changing lights of the windows, came slowly out of the vestry and up to the pulpit.  He was an old man now, but a vigorous one, and his sermons were still strong and full of the fire of his earlier years.  He had never walked quite so smartly, nor spoken with quite his old vim since the day he had been left alone in the Manse.  But through his bereavement his eye had grown a little kindlier, his handshake a little more sympathetic, his voice a little more tender.

As he stood up and opened the Book of Praise to announce the first hymn, his glance involuntarily travelled, as it always did at the beginning of the service, to where old Angus’s white head shone in the amber light of the window, as though a halo of glory were about it.  Old Angus had long ago learned to look for that glance, and returned it by a glow from his deep eyes.  Whenever they sang the 112th psalm in Algonquin Presbyterian church,

  “How blest the man who fears the Lord,
  And makes His law his chief delight,”

the minister looked down and thought how well the words described the sunny-faced old saint, and Angus looked up and felt how aptly they fitted his pastor.

Dr. Leslie had had Angus in his mind this morning when he chose the 111th psalm for their opening praise, knowing how the old man’s heart would be lifted to his God this morning.

  “Praise ye the Lord; with my whole heart
  The Lord’s praise I’ll declare.”

They sang it to “Gainsborough,” the favourite tune of the old folk, for it gave an opportunity for restful lingering on every word, and had in it all those much-loved trills and quavers that made up the true accompaniment of a Scottish psalm.  They sang it spiritedly, as Algonquin Presbyterians always sang; the choir and the organ on one side, the congregation on the other, each striving to gain the greater volume and power.  For many years the choir had won out, for Lawyer Ed was leader, and the whole congregation would have been no match for him alone.  But lately he had handed the leadership over to a young man whom he had trained up from the Sunday-school, and gone down to the opposition, where he sometimes gave the organist and the choir all they could do to be heard.  And this morning, in his happiness over Roderick’s home-coming, he was at his best.

There was only one little rift in the harmony of the whole congregation.  In spite of Mr. McPherson’s objections, Lawyer Ed and J. P. Thornton had succeeded in putting the “Amen” at the end of the psalms, as well as the hymns, and when the objectionable word came this morning, Jock sat down as he always did, heavily and noisily, exactly on the last word of the psalm proper, and pulled Mrs. Jock’s silk wrap to make her give a like condemnation to the bit of popery.  Lawyer Ed sat in the pew opposite Jock and heard the protesting creak of Jock’s seat when he descended and, in a spirit of mischief, he turned round till he faced the McPherson and rolled out the “Amen” directly at its objector.  It was shocking conduct for an elder, as J. P. said afterwards, but then every one knew that though he should become Moderator of the General Assembly, Lawyer Ed would never grow up.

The sermon was to young people.  It was a call to them to give their lives in their morning to the true Master and Lord of life.  Dr. Leslie took for his text the scene enacted on that great morning when two young fishermen had heard across the shining water that call which, once truly heard by the heart’s ear, cannot be resisted, “Come ye after Me.”  There were young people in the church that morning who heard it as truly as the fisher lads that far gone morning on Galilee, and as truly obeyed it.  Helen Murray listened, struggling with tears.  She had grown up in a Christian home where the influence of father and mother were such that it was inevitable that she should early become a disciple of the Master they served.  But she had faltered in her service since her griefs had come upon her in such a flood.  She would never have allowed herself to grow selfish over her joys but sorrow had absorbed her.  She did not realise, until this morning, that she was growing selfish over her trouble.  The tender call came again-“Come ye after Me,” sounding just as sweetly and impelling in the night of sorrow and stress as it ever did in the joyous morning.

Roderick McRae was listening to the sermon too, but he did not hear the Voice.  For in his young, eager ears was ringing the siren song of success.  He had gone to church regularly in his absence from home, because he knew that the weekly letter to his father would lose half its charm did the son not give an account of the sermon he had heard the Sabbath before.  But much listening to sermons had bred in the young man the inattentive heart, even though the ear was doing its duty.  Roderick accepted sermons and church-going good-naturedly, as a necessary, respectable formality of life.  That it must have a bearing on all life or be utterly meaningless he did not realise.  His plans for life had nothing to do with church, and the divine call fell upon his ears unheeded.

When the sermon was drawing to a close, Lawyer Ed scribbled something on a scrap of paper and when he rose to take the offering he passed it up to the minister.  Lawyer Ed never in his life got through a sermon without writing at least one note.  This one was a request for St. George’s, Edinburgh, as the closing psalm.  He knew it was not the one selected, but something in the stirring words of the sermon, coupled with his joy over his boy’s return, had roused him so that nothing but the hallelujahs of that great anthem could express his feelings.

When Dr. Leslie arose at the close and announced, instead of the regular doxology, the 24th psalm, Harry Lauder, the leader of the choir, looked down at Lawyer Ed and smiled, and Lawyer Ed smiled back at him.  The young man’s name was really Harry Lawson, but as he had a beautiful tenor voice, and could sing a funny Scottish song far better, every one in Algonquin said, than the great Scotch singer himself, he had been honored by the slight but significant change in his name.  And when Harry Lauder smiled down at Lawyer Ed at the announcement of St. George’s, Edinburgh, every one knew what it meant.  When Lawyer Ed had given up the choir, under the pressure of other duties, and put Mr. Lawson in his place, he delivered this ultimatum to his successor:  “Now look here, youngster.  I am not used to being led by any one, either in singing or in anything else, but I promise that as far as I can, I’ll follow you in the church service.  But there’s one tune in which I’ll follow no living man, no, nor congregation of massed bands, and that’s St. George’s, Edinburgh.  I just can’t help it, Harry; when the first note of that tune comes rolling out, I am neither to hold nor to bind.  Now I don’t want to have it spoiled by see-sawing, that would be blasphemous.  So you just tell the organist that I have a weakness comes over me when that tune is sung, and tell him to listen, and follow me.  And you do the same.”

So every one knew that when St. George’s, Edinburgh, was sung, Lawyer Ed became the leader of the choir and congregation pro tem.  No one needed to be told, however, for none could help following him.  And he had never thrown himself into it with more abandon than on this sunny morning with the Eternal Call sounding again in the ears of all who had truly heard the sermon.

  “Ye gates lift up your heads on high!”

He was glorious on the first stanza, he was magnificent on the second.  He climbed grandly up the heights of its crescendo:-

      “Ye doors that last for aye,
  Be lifted up that so the King of glory enter may,”

in ever growing power and volume; up to the wonder of the question-

  “But who is He that is the King of glory?”

up to the rapture of the response:-

  “The Lord of Hosts and none but He
  The King of Glory is.”

And then out he came upon the heights of the refrain, with all the universe conquered and at his feet.  When the first Hallelujah burst from the congregation, mounting splendidly at his side, the leader closed his book.  He flung it upon the seat, tore off his glasses, clasped his hands behind him, and let himself go.  And with a mighty roar he swept congregation, choir, organ, everybody, up into a thunder of praise.

  “Hallelujah, Hallelujah.  Amen, Amen.”

It might not have been considered finished by a musical critic, it may have lacked restraint and nicety of shading; but no one who heard the Algonquin congregation that morning singing “Ye Gates lift up your heads,” led by Lawyer Edward Brians, could doubt that it was surely some such fine fresh rapture that rang through the aisles of Heaven on that creation day when the morning stars sang together and all the Sons of God shouted for joy.

Helen Murray bowed her head for the benediction, the stinging tears rushing to her eyes, but they were not tears of sorrow.  For the moment she had forgotten there was such a thing as pain.  She had lost it as she had been swept up to the glad peaks of song.  For one trembling moment she had caught a glimpse of a new wonder, the whole world moving, through sorrow and pain and dull misunderstanding, surely and swiftly up to God.  And for that instant her soul had leaped forward, too, to meet Him.  She came down from the heights; no mortal could live there, seeing things that were not lawful to utter.  But from that first Sunday in Algonquin church her outlook on her new life was changed.  She had seen the end of her rainbow.  It was back of mists and clouds and storms, but it was there!  And she could never again be quite so sad.

The congregation slowly filed put of the pews and down the aisles, chatting in soft hushed voices, until the organist pulled out all the stops and played a lively air, and then the conversation rose to suit the accompaniment.  Mr. McPherson had objected to the pipe-organ, to the hired organist from the city, and finally and most vigorously to the musical dispersion of the congregation.  If the body must play for the church service, Jock conceded, well, he must; but why he must paw and trample and harry the noisy thing, when church was over and done with, was a mystery that no right thinking person could solve.  The organist, when approached with the elder’s objections, had answered with dignity that all the city churches did it, and Jock’s case was hopelessly lost.  For when Algonquin was told that in the city they did thus and so, then Algonquin would do that thing too if it had meant burning down the church.  So the congregation went down the aisles, sailing merrily on a flood of gay music, and as they went, Miss Annabel introduced the new teacher to several of the young folk of the church, who asked her to join the Christian Endeavor and the Young Women’s Society, and the Young People’s Bible class and to come to the picnic to-morrow afternoon in the park and the moonlight sail on Friday evening, and assured her that she would like Algonquin, and wasn’t it a very pretty place?

As they passed down the steps, a slim young man, dressed immaculately in the height of fashion, came tripping up to them and addressed Miss Annabel in the most abjectly polite manner.

“Good morning, Mr. Wilbur,” said the lady coldly, “I am sure you must welcome Sunday.  I suppose you are working so hard these days.”  It was very cruel of Miss Annabel, for poor Afternoon Tea Willie had not yet been able to get an introduction to the lady of his dreams, and he really did work very hard indeed, and his was the employment from which there was no respite even on Sundays.  But she hurried Helen on without further notice of him.  Roderick was watching the little play with some amusement as he stood waiting for his father, who had stopped to have a word with the minister.  As he did so he was puzzled to see Fred Hamilton pass him without so much as a word.  He was concluding that his old acquaintance had not seen him, when he heard a merry laugh at his elbow and there stood Miss Leslie Graham.

“Did you see poor Freddy?” she cried.  “Oh, dear, dear, I told on him after all, and he’s mad at everybody in the town, you included, evidently.  Now here’s Daddy.  He’s dying to meet you.  Here, Dad, this is the man that did the deed.”

Mr. Graham took Roderick’s hand and held it while he thanked him, in a voice that trembled, for saving his daughter’s life.  Roderick was attempting to disclaim any heroism in the matter, when Mrs. Graham fell upon him with a rustle of silks, and fairly overwhelmed him with gratitude.  Then two or three others came up and demanded to know what it was all about and Roderick was overcome with embarrassment and was thankful when his father appeared and he could make his escape.

Lawyer Ed came to the buggy to say good-bye to Angus and to enquire what was the collie-shankie at the kirk door, and when he heard, he slapped Roderick on the back.  “Well, well, look here, my lad,” he cried, “why, your fortune is as good as made.  Sandy Graham has been mad at me for the space of twenty-five years or more about something or other-what was it now?  Bless me if I haven’t forgotten what.  But he nearly left the church over it, and entirely left the law firm of Brians & Co.”  The bereaved head of the firm put back his head at the recollection, shut his eyes, and laughed long and heartily.  “But you’ve got him back again all right, and I tell you this, my lad, if you get his business your fortune is just about made.  Only don’t go and lose your heart to the handsome young lady while you need a steady head!”

They drove away, and while the father talked on the drive home of the sermon, the son answered absently; his thoughts were all with the piece of good luck which had come his way by such a mere chance.