will be ready to begin your new labors, leaving Billy to your God. I promise you that your boy shall be well taken care of, and that the truth shall ever be kept from our parish."

With a look full of pity that transformed even the strong lines of his face into messages of compassion he stepped quietly from the room, while Father Benton piteously moaned, "My son Absalom! My son Absalom! Oh Billy, my Billy!"

It was a Sunday morning. Now it so happens even under a fine postal system mails are sometimes delayed, and that is why a large congregation was gathered in St. Luke's this Sunday morning expecting to welcome their new minister. Few had heard him preach, but all had heard of his far-famed eloquence and piety; for the committee of seven had done their work well. It was said that a veritable Abelard had appeared among them, and they were in a highly congratulatory mood at their good fortune in having secured so valuable an asset.

The music was quivering away through the last chord, as if the notes themselves were trying to fill in time. The anthem was even repeated. But where was the minister? A nervous tension was beginning to be felt throughout the congregation. Mr. Boultenhouse crossed one foot over the other, uncrossed it, and then opened his Bible. No minister! The other members of the committee were seeking telepathic communication with each other.

Finally, Mr. Boultenhouse slid out of his pew and retired to the vestry, and as quickly did six other men find their way there also. "I don't know what to make of this," began Mr. Boultenhouse, when a messenger hurriedly thrust into his hand a letter. Tearing off its corners he breathlessly read aloud: "To the

Secretary of the pulpit supply committee of St. Luke's church: I hereby tender my resignation as pastor. Deeply sensible of the honor I am thus declining, and with great gratitude to you all, and specially to the Godlike kindness of your Secretary, I offer as my only excuse for this action, that God made me a father before he made me a clergyman.

"I am not unaware that I hereby am abandoning a possible field of great usefulness, and that to some it may seem I am choosing my son instead of God, but in my own heart I know this is not true. I am simply choosing my son instead of a big city church. God is on both sides. My heavenly Father has already taught me that everywhere in this world there is always some one to be helped, and it may be that along the Great Highway as I seek my Billy I shall find those to help that need me more than the parishioners of St. Luke's.

"As to St. Luke's, I realize that God has some better man to serve her than myself, and that He will not let His work suffer there. Wherever I am, day or night, I need not say my earnest prayer shall be offered for her welfare. God bless you all!

"L. B. BENTON."

And Billy, poor, weak, wicked, sick Billy, lay on his cot in the open air breathing into his body God's sunshine and healthgiving breezes; but hourly realizing no air is rich enough to heal a sick soul and a bruised heart. Homesick, disheartened, weary, he had just one longing left in life, and that was for “Father!” He knew all about it. He couldn't blame anyone but himself. Mr. Boultenhouse had very kindly told him everything that day he had found him so sick in the boarding-house.

He, too, had dreamed for years of the big city church for

Father. It had come,

but oh, it didn't include Billy. Mr. Father could never belong to

Boultenhouse had told him so. Billy again. The big city church needed him and Billy had been bad and could no longer belong to Father. It was right, only if he could have seen Father just once, and had his forgiveness, have felt his arms around him, he believed he even might have found God through Father. He had always wanted to be good and to love God.

Strange that through all these years he never had actually affiliated himself with Father's church. He knew well that because he hadn't was a great grief to Father, though he had been too wise to insist upon it. But God had seemed so distant, that somehow he couldn't seem to find Him and understand Him.

Perhaps if he had only been good, and years ago had really found God, it would all have been different, and he wouldn't be in this frightful loneliness now.

But the chance was gone, and all he could think of was that he had been so bad! Father's Billy had become a drunkard, a forger. At this moment he would have been in jail had it not been for Mr. Boultenhouse's kindness. He had told him so!

Then the sun on mocking sunbeams would dance right into his eyes, and all the dazzling whiteness of infinite space would press down upon his head, and the nurse would find a delirious Billy muttering, "Father, Father!"

Then he would feel better again and would remember how Father always helped him when a little chap in trouble. What fun it was that day when the big boys went out swimming to the island! They said Billy was too small to join in the fun, and must play on the beach. When Father saw his tears he just put

Billy's arms around his neck and swam with him out beyond all the rest, and when he felt the cold water he hadn't screamed, for he heard Father say, “All right, my boy. Hold on!" and he and Father had beaten them all and landed first at High Rock!

Perhaps soon, very soon, he again would feel the waves of another ocean, for there was nothing left for Billy but to die, --and how could he help being afraid when now he didn't have Father to say, "All right, Son. Hold on, my boy!"

How could he ever have gone back on Father! He didn't know, only he was so sorry, and he could never tell Father so, now. If Father only knew how sorry he was he would want to help him, he knew. What a father he was, never happy except when helping someone! But the big city church had come to Father, and the big city church and Billy must have a continent between them. So he turned and tossed, and the nurses looked grave, and the doctor looked anxious. In an uneasy sleep they heard him muttering, "He came to himself! He came to himself! a long way off worse than a prodigal!"

"Nurse!" he whispered. "Say it is awful to be worse than the prodigal. Nurse, say, you know that poor fellow could go to his Father, but I know a fellow that can't. Don't be sorry for him, nurse? He is a worthless sort of a chap, and deserves it all!"

And then just as the evening sun streamed through the trees, he suddenly started and tried to rise on his elbow. "Am I dying, nurse? I thought I heard my Father's step. I could always tell it! Listen! Yes, yes, I'm sure! Is it time for Heaven? No, my Father can't come, nurse. church. I'm bad and only Billy.

God has given him a big city Oh! Father, Father! and I'm

not dead either, I know I'm not. It is better than the Prodigal, for when he was a long way off, when Billy was a long way off his father came to Billy! Oh, Father, my Father. Is God like you?" And Billy was in his father's arms and both were thanking God.

It was morning when at length the tired traveller started to leave his boy for much needed rest.

For the last few minutes Billy had apparently been sleeping quietly on his father's arm. As he felt it gently slipping out from under his head he murmured, "Wait, Father. Have prayers first with Billy." And as Father knelt, Billy clasped both hands around his neck, and reverently the first time in his life himself led their old time simple evening service, that Mother, Father, and brothers and sisters had once made his cradle song, that Father, Jane, and himself had in later years held so often in solemn conclave.

Sweetly and rapturously as if kissed by the coming sunbeams sang out Billy's voice in the morning air, "I believe in God the Father!" And again as if such wonderous music caressed his very soul with triumphant accents came the old-world song, "I believe in God the Father!"

THE NAME OF OLD GLORY

Old Glory! say, who,

By the ships and the crew,

And the long blended ranks of the gray and the blue,

Who gave you, Old Glory, the name that you bear

With such pride everywhere

As you cast yourself free to the rapturous air