LITMIR.BIZ

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thoughts, the next day Mrs. Thorpe dropped in upon this friend. And during the call she discussed the church choir with Mrs. Mayhew's niece, Geraldine, who was the church organist.

      "I think we should have some new music," Mrs. Thorpe said. "Since Max Morrison has consented to sing in the choir, with his strong tenor voice we can undertake some things which we could not before. I am glad that Max has promised to help us. So much depends on the choir. People will go where they can hear good music."

      Geraldine made some suggestions regarding the new music, and Mrs. Mayhew readily agreed with Mrs. Thorpe that the choir has much to do with the success of the modern church.

      At the service the next Sunday morning Mr. Thorpe gave a strong, scholarly address. But it was not the sermon, neither was it the strong tenor, nor the new music that caught Mrs. Thorpe's attention. She was coming to regard the service hour on Sunday as the hardest time of the week. For strive, struggle and pray as she would, she could not always bring herself into a proper frame of mind; could not keep the spirit of worship.

      Sometimes a thought from her husband's sermon would flash out before her, confront her and torment her. At this stage of her life the thought, "I do not believe," never confronted her boldly and openly; but always there was the subtle insinuation, "Do you believe?" Sometimes her soul's agony was caused by the attitude of the people, lavishly dressed, ostentatiously worshipful. Then instead of worship in her own heart she would be possessed by scathing scorn. But this morning it was the songs that caused her undoing. Her husband took his place in the pulpit and the choir sang the opening hymn; and a line, a thought from the song attacked Mrs. Thorpe:

      "Lord Jesus, look down from thy throne in the skies,

      And help me to make a complete sacrifice."

      Mrs. Thorpe felt herself without rudder or sail, her bark at the mercy of a stormy sea. Her mind was chaotic:

      "The Lord Jesus Christ then was sitting comfortably, contentedly upon His throne in the skies! What wonder that His people are straying in many forbidden paths? What wonder that they are wandering, scattered and lost? Are they not as sheep without a shepherd? If He is the Savior of men, why is He not among His people--oh, his people who so sorely need Him?"

      The thought brought the tears to her eyes; but the next thought choked them abruptly:

      "If He had taken Himself to His shining throne in Heaven, what right had she or this concourse of people to conjure Him to come down?"

      Instead of the submissive attitude of one desiring to make a "complete sacrifice," a wild, unreasoning rebellion arose within her; but a stoical calm covered every emotion. But she was not yet to be let off the rack; the worst was to follow. The sermon was devoted to the work and needs of missions, and the pastor made a strong appeal for funds with which to carry on the Master's work. After the sermon the first lines of song rang out with a pleasing melody:

      "I have read of a beautiful City,

      Far away in the Kingdom of God:

      I have read how its walls are of jasper,

      How its streets are all golden and broad."

      Mrs. Thorpe's sense of humor, which sometimes leaped suddenly into life and overmastered all her troubled thoughts and melancholy broodings, now came near finishing the tragedy of the service hour. Those "Streets all golden and broad--" If it was gold the world needed--and her husband had told them so emphatically that it was--why just a section of the street up there--only think what could be accomplished with a block--"all golden!"

      But perhaps her humor was not of a healthy sort this morning; for her heart was cold as ice, and she feared that she might shriek aloud in fiendish glee.

      During the weeks that followed she found her work difficult to perform; all her tasks were irksome. But with a desperate courage, and a resolution born of her will, she held herself to the minutest details of every task that came to her. As the weeks slipped by a peculiar strained look grew upon her face. Her husband noticed that the bloom was fading from her cheeks and an unattractive pallor taking its place, and the thought came to him that perhaps his wife was burdened with too many cares.

      "Are you not so well as usual, Evelyn?" he asked her one day.

      A nervous flush covered, for the time, the tired look on her face.

      "Not so well, perhaps, just of late," she replied. She raised her eyes to his, and he noticed a strange expression in their depths.

      But with a sort of supreme despair she clung to her work, and devoted herself to her various duties. Yet she found herself little by little obliged to give up much that she had undertaken, for there were days when pain and physical weakness overcame her.

      One evening after his usual hour of study, Mr. Thorpe laid aside his books and went in search of his wife. She was indisposed and had kept her room during the day. He found her noiselessly walking back and forth through the room, with her hands pressed close against her temples. She wore a loose gown, which fell in long folds about her, and revealed her tall and ghost-like in the dim light. Mr. Thorpe stood for a moment and regarded her in silence. Her face was haggard, and her eyes were set in dark circles. Her movements were slow and mechanical, as though her body was a thing apart from the spirit which impelled it. Her whole attitude and appearance suggested the embodiment of an overmastering pain.

      Mr. Thorpe stepped to her side. "Evelyn, my dear," he said, "you are in great pain. Why did you not call me? You should have help; direct me and I will bring you some remedy."

      "I have tried many remedies," she said. "I do not believe anything will relieve me. A headache has to have its own time."

      She assured her husband that there was nothing that he could do to relieve her, and begged him to retire and leave her alone.

      In the small hours of the night she crept to her bed, pale and worn, like some wounded thing that has been engaged in deadly combat with a foe. The pain had burned itself out, and the sleep of exhaustion came to her.

      The severity of his wife's attacks alarmed Mr. Thorpe, and he begged her to lay down still more of the burden of her work. But she was not ready to do this, and continued her self-appointed tasks with all the strength at her command. Yet there was something in look and manner, something indescribable, unlike her real self, that caused Mr. Thorpe a vague feeling of apprehension for the future.

      It was at this time that Mr. Thorpe's cousin, Pauline, came to make her home at the parsonage. She was a middle-aged woman, strong and vigorous and possessed of a goodly share of common sense and plain practicality. Having missed making a home for herself, she very sensibly made herself at home wherever she was.

      "I love the Lord with all my heart," she was wont to say, "and I can work for him quite as well in one place as in another."

      There was something in her strong and wholesome personality that caused one to trust her instinctively. And gradually, as Mrs. Thorpe was obliged to lay them down, she assumed the household cares; and cheerfully from day to day she took upon herself the burden of the work, and managed the girl in the kitchen with more tact and discretion than Mrs. Thorpe had ever been able to command.

      "I do not believe that life holds any problems for Pauline," was Mrs. Thorpe's mental comment, "or that she has any doubts or fears with which to contend."

      Now Mr. Thorpe pleaded with his wife and tried to induce her to lay aside all her cares in order that she might regain her health. But she insisted that she was not ill, and that she should not fail in her work; and she devoted herself with renewed zeal to her outside duties. Yet the days came closer together when she was obliged to keep her room, and not infrequently her bed for the day.

      At such times Mr. Thorpe had fallen into the way of summoning the family physician, Dr. Eldrige.

      The old doctor would shake his head and declare it to be a case of "nerves." And one day when Mrs. Thorpe's suffering was unusually severe, he said to Mr. Thorpe in his characteristically blunt, brusque manner:

      "If you wish to keep that wife of yours out of the grave or the lunatic asylum, you

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