She walked on for at least a mile, passing, as she did so, out of one suburb into another. She was interested in the pretty little bungalows she passed, and in the finer houses when she turned to another street, but she was looking for churches. Presently she came to another, a smart yellow brick affair out on the street with the doors open and a brisk air of business around the place. Groups of young people were wending their way toward it, and going in the door. A large blackboard outside the entrance announced the various activities of the week. Monday evening there was a rehearsal for the Christian Endeavor pageant, and all costumes were to be brought, Tuesday evening Class A was holding a bazaar and supper for the benefit of the new basketball team. Wednesday evening there was to be a lecture by a professor from a famous university entitled, “Why I Know That the World is Growing Better.” Thursday there was a choir rehearsal, and a meeting of the Ladies’ Aid to arrange to coöperate with the Red Cross for the annual fair, Friday there was a church social, and Saturday there was a picnic in one of the amusement parks with a moonlight ride home in automobiles. Joyce read it carefully through, searching in vain for a word that would show the faith of these people of great activities, but found nothing, not even a prayer meeting. Probably that lecture was in place of one. Well, it might be all right, but she had been taught that the world wasn’t growing better, and never would till Christ came to make things over. Lifting her eyes above the blackboard, she saw that the church bulletin announced the minister’s topic for that night, “The Political Situation Today.” She turned away with a sigh. Well, it might be all right, but it promised nothing from the outside. She walked on, turning down another street. Two hours she walked, keeping the general direction of her home in mind so that she would not get lost. She found several little churches, all more or less attractive in a way, but none of them giving any clue to what was preached inside, and at last, with a heavy heart and weary feet, she turned her steps homeward, coming back by a different street. It was when she was within four or five blocks of where she judged her little house must be that she came upon another church built of rough stone, rugged and substantial, but beautiful in its simple lines. The door was open and a burst of song from young voices greeted her: “What can wash away my stain? Nothing but the blood of Jesus. What can make me whole again? Nothing but the blood of Jesus.” Joyce turned in at the door as a bird flies home to its nest. CHAPTER XIX