The synagogue, with its modern trappings and fashionably-dressed congregation, seemed to disappear. He saw the old Temple take its place, with its solemn ceremonials of scapegoat and burnt-offering. Through the chanting of the choir in the gallery back of him he heard the thousand-voiced song of the Levites. He seemed to see the clouds of incense, and the smoke arising from the high brazen altar. He bowed his head on the seat in front of him. His whole soul seemed to go out in reverent adoration to this great Jehovah, worshiped by both Hebrew and Christian. The memorial service to the dead followed the sermon. Cragmore's music-loving nature responded like a quivering harp-string as the choir began a minor chant: "Oh what is man, the child of dust? What is man, O Lord?" The low, moaning tones of the great organ rose and fell like the beat of a far-off tide, as all heads bowed in silent devotion, recalling in that moment the lives that had passed out into the great beyond. Cragmore whispered a fervent prayer of thankfulness for the unbroken family circle across the wide Atlantic. As he did so, a breath of blossoming hawthorn hedges, a faint chiming of the Shandon bells, and the blue mists of the Kerry hills seemed to mingle a moment with his prayer. The sun had set, when in the concluding service his eyes fell on the words the Rabbi was reading--The Mission of Israel--"It's a pity," he thought, "that every mentally cross-eyed Christian, who, between ignorance and bigotry, can get only a distorted impression of the Jews, couldn't have heard this service to-day, especially that prayer for all mankind, and this one he is reading now: