In the little vestry room were packed some twenty children of all ages and sizes, with a number of grownups who had joined the class in charge of some of its younger members. There was, for instance, Mrs. Innes, with the two youngest of her numerous progeny pillowed against her 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 rasping voice broke in:

"Your class report, Mr. Dunbar, please. We're waiting for it."

A sigh of disappointment and regret swept the room.

"Oh, darn the little woodpecker!" said Ewen from the outside, in a disgusted tone. "That's the way with Hayes. He thinks he's the whole works, and that he never can get in wrong."

The spell was broken, never to be renewed. The story hurried to its close, but the great climax failed of its proper effect.

"He's a hummer, ain't he?" exclaimed young Pickles to his friend, Pat McCann.

"Some hummer, and then some!" replied Pat.

"I'm goin' in," said Pickles.

"Aw, what for? He ain't no good preachin' to them folks. By gum! I think he's scared of 'em."

But Pickles persisted, and followed with the men and boys who lounged lazily into the church, from which the Sunday School had now been dismissed.

It appeared that the judgment of Pat McCann upon the merits of the preacher would be echoed by the majority of the congregation present.

While the service was conducted in proper form and in reverent spirit, the sermon was marked by that most unpardonable sin of which sermons can be guilty; it was dull. Solid enough in matter, thoughtful beyond the average, it was delivered in a style appallingly wooden, with an utter absence of that arresting, dramatic power that the preacher had shown in his children's class.

The appearance of the congregation was, as ever, a reflection of the sermon. The heat of the day, the reaction from the long week in the open air, the quiet monotony of the well modulated voice rising and falling in regular cadence in what is supposed by so many preachers to be the tone suitable for any sacred office, produced an overwhelmingly somnolent effect. Many of them slept, some frankly and openly, others under cover of shading hands, bowed heads, or other subterfuges. Others again spent the whole of the period of the sermon, except for some delicious moments of surreptitious sleep, in a painful but altogether commendable struggle against the insidious influence of the god of slumber.

Among the latter was Mrs. Innes, whose loyalty to her minister, which was as much a part of her as her breathing, contended in a vigorous fight against her much too solid flesh. It was a certain aid to wakefulness that her two children, deep in audible slumber, kept her in a state of active concern lest their inert and rotund little masses of slippery flesh should elude her grasp, and wreck the proprieties of the hour by flopping on the floor. There was also a further sleep deterrent in the fact that immediately before her sat Mr. McFettridge, whose usually erect form, yielding to the soporific influences of the environment, showed a tendency gradually to sag into an attitude, relaxed and formless, which suggested sleep. This, to the lady behind him, partook of the nature of an affront to her minister. Consequently she considered it her duty to arouse the snoozing McFettridge with a vigorous poke in the small of the back.

The effect was instantaneously apparent. As if her insistent finger had touched a button and released an electric current, Mr. McFettridge's sagging form shot convulsively into rigidity, and impinging violently upon the peacefully slumbering Mr. Boggs on the extreme end of the bench, toppled him over into the aisle.

The astonished Boggs, finding himself thus deposited upon the floor, and beholding the irate face of Mr. McFettridge glooming down upon him, and fancying him to be the cause of his present humiliating position, sprang to his feet, swung a violent blow upon Mr. Fettridge's ear, exclaiming sotto voce:

"Take that, will you! And mind your own business! You were sleeping yourself, anyway!"

Before the astonished and enraged Mr. McFettridge could gather his wits sufficiently for action, there rang over the astonished congregation a peal of boyish laughter. It was from the minister. A few irrepressible youngsters joined in the laugh; the rest of the congregation, however, were held rigid in the grip of a shocked amazement.

"Oh, I say! do forgive me, Mr. McFettridge!" cried the young man at the desk. "It was quite involuntary, I assure you." Then, quickly recovering himself, he added, "And now we shall conclude the service by singing the seventy-ninth hymn."

Before the last verse was sung he reminded the audience of the congregational meeting immediately following, and without further comment the service was brought to a close.

A number of the congregation, among them Barry's father, departed.

"Sit down, Neil," said Mrs. Innes to Neil Fraser. "You'll be wanted I doot." And Neil, protesting that he knew nothing about church business, sat down.

At the back of the church were gathered Harry Hobbs, young Pickles, and others of the less important attendants of the church, who had been induced to remain by the rumour of a "scrap."

By a fatal mischance, the pliant Nathan Pilley was elected chairman.

This gentleman was obsessed by the notion that he possessed in a high degree the two qualities which he considered essential to the harmonious and expeditious conduct of a public meeting, namely, an invincible determination to agree with every speaker, and an equally invincible determination to get motions passed.

In a rambling and aimless speech, Mr. Pilley set forth in a somewhat general way the steps leading up to this meeting, and then called upon Mr. Innes, the chairman of the Board of Management, to state more specifically the object for which it was called.

Mr. Innes, who was incurably averse to voluble speech, whether public or private, arose and said, in rolling Doric:

"Weel, Mr. Chair-r-man, there's no much to be done. We're behind a few hundred dollars, but if some one will go about wi' a bit paper, nae doot the ar-rear-rs wad soon be made up, and everything wad be ar-richt."

"Exactly," said Mr. Pilley pleasantly. "Now will some one offer a motion?"

Thereupon Mr. Hayes was instantly upon his feet, and in a voice thin and rasping exclaimed:

"Mr. Chairman, there's business to be done, and we are here to do it, and we're not going to be rushed through in this way."

"Exactly, Mr. Hayes, exactly," said Mr. Pilley. "We must give these matters the fullest consideration."

Then followed a silence.

"Perhaps Mr. Hayes--" continued the chairman, looking appealingly at that gentleman.

"Well, Mr. Chairman," said Mr. Hayes, with an appeased but slightly injured air, "it is not my place to set forth the cause of this meeting being called. If the chairman of the board would do his duty"--here he glared at the unconscious Mr. Innes--"he would set before it the things that have made this meeting necessary, and that call for drastic action."

"Hear! Hear!" cried Mr. Boggs.

"Exactly so," acquiesced the chairman. "Please continue, Mr. Hayes."

Mr. Hayes continued: "The situation briefly is this: We are almost hopelessly in debt, and--"

"How much?" enquired Neil Fraser, briskly interrupting.

"Seven hundred dollars," replied Mr. Hayes, "and further--"

"Five hundred dollars," said Mr. Innes.

"I have examined the treasurer's books," said Mr. Hayes in the calmly triumphant tone of one sure of his position, "and I find the amount to be seven hundred dollars, and therefore--"

"Five hundred dollars," repeated Mr. Innes, gazing into space.

"Seven hundred dollars, I say," snapped Mr. Hayes.

"Five hundred dollars," reiterated Mr. Innes, without further comment.

"I say I have examined the books. The arrears are seven hundred dollars."

"Five hundred dollars," said Mr. Innes calmly.

The youngsters at the back snickered.