This has nothing to do, it seems to me, with the fact that a certain degree of outlay on dress is criminal, on several grave accounts; nor even with the incongruous spectacle of a becoming bonnet arranged during the Litany by the tightly gloved fingers of a worshipper, who would probably not be any the more devout for being uncomfortably conscious of bad clothes. An old friend of my childhood used to tell me that she always thought a good deal of her dress before going to church, that she might quite forget it when there. Surely, dress has absolutely nothing to do with devotion. And the impertinent patronage of worshippers in “fustian” is at least as offensive as the older-fashioned vulgarity of pride in congregations who “come in their own carriages.” And I do protest against the flippant inference that good clothes for the body must lower the assumptions of the spirit, or make repentance insincere; which I no more believe than that the worship of a clean Christian is less acceptable than that of a brother who cannot afford or does not value the use of soap. I am perhaps anxious to defend this congregation, on which Jan stumbled in the pale light of early morning in the city, from any imputation on the sincerity of its worship, because it was mostly very comfortably clad. The men were chiefly business men, with a good deal of the obnoxious “broadcloth” about them, and with well-brushed hats beneath their seats. One of the stoutest and most comfortable-looking, with an intelligent face and a fair clean complexion which spoke of good food, stood near the door. He wore a new great-coat with a velvet collar, but his gray eyes (they had seen middle age, and did not shine with any flash of youthful enthusiasm) were fixed upon the window, and he sang very heartily, and by heart,— “Other Refuge have I none! Hangs my helpless soul on Thee; Leave, ah! leave me not alone, Still support and comfort me.” The tears flowed down Jan’s cheeks. It had been a favorite hymn of his foster-mother, and he had often sung it to her. Master Swift used to “give the note,” and then sink himself into the bass part, and these quaint duets had been common at the mill. How delightful such simple pleasures seem to those who look back on them from the dark places of the earth, full of misery and wickedness! In spite of his tears, Jan was fain to join as the hymn went on, and he sang like a bird,— “All my trust on Thee is stayed, All my help from Thee I bring; Cover my defenceless head With the shadow of Thy wing.” It was the hymn after the third collect, and when it was ended the comfortable-looking gentleman motioned Jan into a seat, and he knelt down. When the service was over, the same gentleman took him by the arm, and asked, “What’s the matter with you, my boy?” A rapid survey of his woes led Jan to reply, “I’ve no home, sir.” The congregation had dispersed quickly, for the men were going to business.