“For _me_?” whispered the sick man. His eyes filled for the first time since the Clara Em went ashore on Ragged Rock. Something new and valuable seemed to have entered life as suddenly as the comfort of kin and the support of friends, and that bright, inspiriting atmosphere, which one calls the world, had gone from him. He had not expected that precious thing--the love of those for whom we sacrifice ourselves. He felt the first thrill of it with gratitude touching to think of, in so young and lovable a man, with life and all its brilliant and beautiful possibilities before him. * * * * * It was an April night, and sea and sky were soft in Windover. A stranger stood in Angel Alley hesitating at a door, which bore above its open welcome these seven words:-- “THE CHURCH OF THE LOVE OF CHRIST.” “What goes on here?” the gentleman asked of a bystander. “Better things than ever went on here before,” was the reply. “They’ve got a _man_ up there. He ain’t no dummy in a minister’s choker.” The stranger put another question. “Well,” came the cordial answer, “he has several names in Angel Alley: fisherman’s friend is one of the most pop’lar. Some calls him the gospel cap’n. There’s those that prefers jest to say, the new minister. There’s one name he _don’t_ go by very often, and that’s the Reverend Bayard.” “He has no right to the title,” murmured the stranger. “What’s that?” interposed the other quickly. The stranger made no reply. “Some call him the Christ’s Rest man,” proceeded the bystander affably. “That is a singular--ah--remarkable cognomen. How comes that?” “Why, you see, the old name for this place was Seraph’s Rest--it was the wust hell in Angel Alley--see? before he took it up an’ sot to prayin’ in it. So folks got it kinder mixed with the Love of Christ up on that sign there. Some calls the place Christlove for short. I heerd an I-talian call him the Christman t’other day.” The stranger took off his hat by instinct, it seemed unconsciously; glanced at the inscription above the door, and passed thoughtfully up the steep, bare stairs into the hall or room of worship. The service was already in progress, for the hour was late, and the gentleman observed with an air of surprise that the place was filled. He looked about for a comfortable seat, but was forced to content himself with standing-room in the extreme rear of the hall. Crowds overflowed the wooden settees, brimmed into the aisles, and were packed, in serried rows as tight as codfish in a box, against the wall. The simile of the cod was forced upon the visitor’s mind in more senses than one. A strong whiff of salt fish assailed him on every side. This was varied by reminiscences of glue factories, taking unmistakable form. An expression of disgust crossed the stranger’s face; it quickly changed into that abstraction which indicates the presence of moral emotion too great for attention to trifles.