On the hundredth anniversary of the organization of our parish there were, of course, great doings in the way of centenary celebrations. Many of the old rectors came back to visit, and to make after-dinner talks and to preach at special services. One of the most interesting of these old men was the Reverend Mr. Jason Gillett, who had been rector for a year shortly after the Civil War, when he was a young man just out of the Theological Seminary. He had since become well-known, one might say famous (in church circles at least) for his sermons of a fervor truly evangelical (so it was said), delivered in a voice noted for its harmony and moving qualities. We had often read about his preaching, in the Church papers. He had brought up from decay several old parishes and had founded one of the finest and most thriving in Chicago. There was a stir when his return for a day was announced, and the morning when he preached, the church was crowded to the doors. He proved to be a spiritual-faced, white-haired, handsome old man, equipped with fine eyes and beautiful hands as well as his famous voice. He preached a sermon which held every one in the church breathlessly attentive. I noticed that his stole was exquisitely worked in gold thread, and after the service, when the Altar Guild were putting things away, we saw that his surplice was of extremely fine material, with a deep band of embroidery about the hem. “Loving lady-parishioners,” conjectured one of the Guild, holding it up. “They say the women are always crazy about him, everywhere, and no wonder!” said another. “Such a fascinating, attractive personality.” “How did you like his sermon?” I asked. Personally I had found it rather too dramatic for my taste. It rubs me the wrong way when I feel that somebody is trying to work my feelings up, although I always feel a little ashamed of this natural ungraciousness, which is labeled in the talk of the old people of our locality as “Canfield cussedness.” One of my companions answered me, “Why, the tears ran right down my cheeks, towards the end of that sermon!” And another added, “Such a power for good as he has been, all his life. Think of his having begun his wonderful work right here in our little parish.” The door opened and the preacher himself entered in his black cassock, followed by a group of people. He was a little flushed from the handshaking reception he had been holding in the vestibule and still wore the affable smile which had gone with the handshaking. The men and women who had followed him in were still talking two or three at once, trying to get his attention, still fixing their eyes on him, unwilling to leave him, moved evidently by his mere presence. “It’s a renewal of my youth to be here again in this dear old parish,” he said genially, using a set of inflections of his fine voice quite different from those of the sermon, “I find it all comes back to me with the utmost freshness. Ah, youth! Youth!”