Then arose a cloud that presaged a storm. The funds were raised for the purpose of securing a library. What right had this committee to vote them away? Could they not be placed in the bank until such time as the needed amount was secured, and then used for their legitimate purpose? Tongues were numerous now, and waxed eloquent; differences of opinion were marked, and were urged with energy. The cloud, at first, no bigger than a man's hand, bade fair to spread over all the congregation, and involve them in a party squall. Then up rose the pastor; the long weeks of silent action were over; the time for speech-making had come. It was true that the funds under discussion had been raised toward the purchase of a new library; it was also true that without a general vote to that effect the committee would not be justified in turning those funds into another channel. At this point the belligerents who desired a new carpet, and meant to have it at once, looked disgusted and the belligerents who desired a new library, and meant to have one sometime, if they could get it, looked complacently defiant, and affirmed with nodding heads that they should never, no, never, vote away that sum of money for any other purpose under the sun! But the pastor had more to say; also he had something to do. The congregational meeting was held in the Sabbath-school room, and just behind the pastor was the great handsome library case, closed and unoccupied for many a day; for, to the honor of the Penn Avenue church, be it written, they had not left the old library to lie in dust on the shelves, but had selected, and mended, and re-covered, such of the books as were deemed worthy of being missionaries, and freighted them to a Western Sabbath-school. That was accomplished during the pincushion and tidy fever, when expectation ran high over the immediate prospect of re-peopling those library shelves; but, as you are aware, the hopes centered on fairs and festivals had been vain, and the library shelves were vacant and dust-covered. So thought every person in that church that afternoon save ten. "I have something to show you," said the pastor, and, as if by magic, those handsome doors swung open, revealing rows upon rows of books unmistakably new, handsomely bound, delightfully large, many of them. Tier upon tier they rose. It took but little arithmetic for those familiar with the library case to discover that there must certainly be more than three hundred books. "Three hundred and forty-five!" said the pastor, reading the mathematical calculations all over the room. "Handsomely bound," and he took one in his hand; "duly marked and numbered," and he opened to the fly-leaf and read: "'Penn Avenue Sabbath-School Library. No. 7.'" What did it mean? Where did they come from? How were they obtained? Nobody spoke, yet these sentences seemed to float all over the room, so distinctly were they written on the sea of eager faces.