Do you remember the thrill in the old governor's voice as he
dared any but the right stuff to come on?'
'We'll go in on Friday night,' I said.
And so we did. Sandy took a load of men with his team, and Graeme and I
drove in the light sleigh.
The meeting was in the church, and over a hundred men were present.
There was some singing of familiar hymns at first, and then Mr. Craig
read the same story as we had heard in the stable, that most perfect of
all parables, the Prodigal Son. Baptiste nudged Sandy in delight,
and whispered something, but Sandy held his face so absolutely
expressionless that Graeme was moved to say--
'Look at Sandy! Did you ever see such a graven image? Something has hit
him hard.'
The men were held fast by the story. The voice of the reader, low,
earnest, and thrilling with the tender pathos of the tale, carried the
words to our hearts, while a glance, a gesture, a movement of the body
gave us the vision of it all as he was seeing it.
Then, in simplest of words, he told us what the story meant, holding us
the while with eyes, and voice, and gesture.
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