Margaret had always, in preference to the Houstons’ pew, occupied her own mother’s, “to keep it warm,” she had said, in affectionate explanation, to Mrs. Houston. Generally, Grace or Clare, or both, came and sat with her to keep her company. But to-day, as yet, neither of her friends had arrived, and she occupied her pew alone. As hers was one of those side pews in a line with the pulpit, her position commanded not only the preacher’s, but the congregation’s view. The preacher had not come. The congregation in the church was sparse, the large majority remaining in the yard. Yet, as Margaret’s eyes casually roved over this thin assembly, she grew paler to notice how heads were put together, and whispers and sidelong glances were directed to herself. To escape this, and to find strength and comfort, she opened her pocket Bible and commenced reading. Presently, the bell tolled; and the people came pouring in, filling their pews. About the time that all was quiet, the minister came in, followed at a little distance by his son and daughter, who passed into the parsonage pew, while he ascended into the pulpit, offered his preliminary private prayer, and then opening the book commenced the sublime ritual of worship. “The Lord is in His holy temple. Let all the earth keep silence before Him.” These words, repeated Sunday after Sunday, never lost their sublime significance for Margaret. They ever impressed her solemnly, at once awing and elevating her soul. Now as they fell upon her ear, her sorrows and humiliations were, for the time, set aside. A hundred eyes might watch her, a hundred tongues malign her; but she neither heeded, nor even knew it. She knew she was alone--she could not help knowing this; Grace had passed her by; Clare had doubtless come, but not to her. She felt herself abandoned of human kind, but yet not alone, for “God was in His holy temple.” The opening exhortation, the hymn, the prayers, and the lessons for the day were all over, and the congregation knelt for the litany. “From envy, hatred and malice, and all uncharitableness, good Lord deliver us.” These words had always slid easily over the tongue of Margaret, so foreign had these passions been to her life and experience; but now with what earnestness of heart they were repeated: “That it may please Thee to forgive our enemies, persecutors and slanderers, and to turn their hearts.” Formal words once, repeated as by rote, now how full of significance to Margaret. “Oh, Father in Heaven,” she added, “help me to ask this in all sincerity.” The litany was over, and the little bustle that ensued, of people rising from their knees, Margaret’s pew door was opened, a warm hand clasped hers, and a cordial voice whispered in her ear: “I am very late to-day, but ‘better late than never,’ even at church.” And Margaret, looking up, saw the bright face of Clare Hartley before her. Poor Margaret, at this unexpected blessing, nearly burst into tears.