Mrs. Carruth was very tired. Not to give a sober Monday to all the drunkards of Angel Alley would she have felt that she could stay another hour in that mob. She never saw such sights in Cesarea; where charity took a mild, ladylike form, consisting chiefly of missionary barrels, and Dorcas societies for the families of poor students who had no business to have married. The Professor took her away. He wanted to tell his heretic graduate what he had thought about that service on the beach; indeed, he made one effort to do so, beginning slowly:-- “My dear Bayard, your discourse this evening”-- “To h---- with ’em!” cried Captain Hap in a thunderous sea-voice, at that moment. “Mr. Bayard! Mr. Bayard, sir! Come here! Here’s them two Trawlses a-tryin’ to toll Job Slip into their place! Mr. Bayard! Mr. Bayard!” Mr. Bayard held out his hand to his Professor, and, smiling, shook his head. Then he vanished down the Alley. He had lingered only to say these words in Helen’s ear:-- “Go into the chapel and stay there till I come for you. Look after Lena--will you? I want her kept inside. Get her to singing with you, if you can.” He called back over his shoulder:-- “I will bring her home, Mrs. Carruth, in half an hour. I will row her home, myself. I have a boat here.” Professor Carruth stood for a moment watching the thronged, bright doorway into which his daughter had disappeared. The fishermen and the drunkards, the Windover widows in their crape and calico, the plain, obscure, respectable parishioners, and the girls from the street moved in together beneath the white and scarlet lights. Helen’s voice sounded suddenly through the open windows. She sang:-- “I need Thee every hour. Stay Thou near by.” “Hello, Bob,” said a voice in the street. “That’s the minister’s hymn.” Groups of men moved over from the grogshop to the chapel door. They collected, and increased in numbers. One man struck into the chorus, on a low bass,-- “Stay near me, O my Saviour.” Another voice joined; and another. Up and down the street the men took the music up. From Angel Alley without, and Christlove within, the voices of the people met and mingled in “the parson’s hymn.” The Professor of Theology glanced at the illuminated words above his head. “It is growing chilly. I am sure you will take cold,” complained his wife. With bared, gray head the Professor walked out of Angel Alley, and his old wife clung silently to his arm. She felt that this was one of the moments when Mr. Carruth should not be spoken to. Bayard brought Helen home as he had promised; and it was but a little beyond the half of the hour when his dory bumped against the float. He rowed her over the dim harbor with long, skillful strokes; Helen fancied that they were not as strong as they might have been; he seemed to her almost exhausted. They had exchanged but a few words. Midway of the harbor she had said abruptly,--