down carrying a baby in her arms. In turn the stranger lifted down three small children, two boys and a girl. When they had seated themselves on a log beside the fire, the man turned his face toward the sky and raising his mighty arms began to pray in a voice of singular beauty.
For a moment the little crowd gathered about the wagon became uneasy, as if looking upon something not meant for its eyes. One of the men grinned with a self-consciousness rare in that crude frontier world. And then slowly the voice and presence of the stranger began to work its effect upon them. They were simple people and the words of the stranger's prayer were commonplace and filled with noble expressions of a grandeur long since worn threadbare by the mouthings of countless bad and insincere preachers. But the same worn phrases in the voice of this preacher became different.
"O Lord of Hosts," he prayed in the beautiful voice, "guide Thy poor children in their wanderings through the wilderness. Look upon Thy poor servant and humble him. Take him as Thy rod and Thy staff to spread Thy truth like a morning sun piercing the darkness. . . ."
He prayed for a long time and one by one the three village women knelt on the frozen clay. One of them threw off her shawl and flinging herself down cried out, "Forgive us our sins, O Lord. Hallelujah. Forgive us our sins." One of the men began to pray and the others stood about in silence, staring resentfully at the ground. The wife of Cyrus Spragg began to rock to and fro on the log,
