"Not necessarily. But I have a fancy just now to know what else you were thinking of." I hesitated a moment, and then said bravely: "I was looking at your face, and it occurred to me that in some faces there was the same power to thrill one's soul that there is in splendid music, or poems that can never die." "You were in a very imaginative and sentimental mood to trace such analogies. It is not wise to see so much in a common human face." "Do we not sometimes get glimpses of God in that way?" I asked. "Are you always thinking such high thoughts, Medoline?" "Oh, no, indeed. When I have nothing to inspire them, my thoughts are very commonplace. The brook cannot rise higher than its source; it needs artificial help to scale mountain tops." He looked at me kindly as he said: "You are not fashioned after the regulation models of the woman of to-day." "I think I have heard that idea expressed in varying phrases a good many times since I came to America." "It does not displease you?" "It used to at first. Possibly I am getting used to it now. I see there is so much genuine unhappiness in the world, I am not going to grieve over the mild criticisms of my friends." "A very philosophic conclusion to come to. But does it not occur to you that other meanings than unkindly ones may be taken from these chance remarks we let fall?" "It would please me if I could," I said, looking at him with pleased eagerness. Mrs. Flaxman entered the room then, ready for church. My head was aching severely, and a distressing giddiness occasionally seized me; but I was so eager for this long coveted privilege, I kept silent about my feelings. Sickness and I were such strangers to each other, I scarcely understood its premonitory warnings. CHAPTER XXV. BEECH STREET WORSHIPPERS. As we neared the Beech Street Church, we found a crowd of persons hurrying in the same direction. Mrs. Flaxman expressed her astonishment; since she supposed Mr. Lathrop's flock to be small in number, and humble in its class of adherents. When we reached the door, a glance inside revealed the fact that it was already comfortably filled, and where all the approaching throng were to be bestowed was a mystery. Daniel Blake was one of the ushers. His face brightened at sight of us. Nodding respectfully to Mr. Winthrop, he led us to one of the best seats in the house. I glanced around at the large congregation, and was impressed by the solemn hush pervading the place, and the expectant look on the faces of the worshippers. Mr. Bowen was sitting near and I wanted Mr. Winthrop to see and know him; so I took out my pencil and wrote on the leaf of my hymn book directing his attention to my friend. He looked keenly at the pale, rapt face, and then with a scarce perceptible smile turned to me.