Harry smiled grimly. He had always been "at ease in Zion." He wore sumptuous clothes--the ruby in his ring would bring what this plodding exhorter would call a fortune. At this moment, Hede, his dapper Finn chauffeur, was polishing the motor-car for him to take his cool evening spin. That very afternoon he had put into the little safe in the chapel study two thousand dollars in gold, which he had drawn, a part for his charities and quarterly payments and a part to take with him for the exigencies of his trip. The street evangelist over there, preaching paradise and perdition to the grinning yokels, often needed a square meal, and was lucky if he always knew where he would sleep. Yet did the Reverend Henry Sanderson, after all, get more out of life than Hallelujah Jones? The thread of his thought broke. The bareheaded figure had ended his harangue. The eternal fires were banked for a time, while, seated on a camp-stool at his crazy melodeon, he proceeded to transport his audience to the heavenly meads of the New Jerusalem. He began a "gospel song" that everybody knew: "I saw a wayworn traveller, The sun was bending low. He overtopped the mountain And reached the vale below. He saw the Golden City, His everlasting home, And shouted as he journeyed, 'Deliverance will come! "'Palms of Victory, Crowns of Glory! Palms of Victory, I shall wear!'" The voice was weather-cracked, and the canvas bellows of the instrument coughed and wheezed, but the music was infectious, and half from overflowing spirits, and half from the mere swing of the melody, the crowd chanted the refrain: "'Palms of Victory; Crowns of Glory! Palms of Victory, I shall wear!'" Two, three verses of the old-fashioned hymn he sang, and after each verse more of the bystanders--some in real earnestness, some in impious hilarity--shouted in the chorus: "'Palms of Victory, I shall wear!'" Harry walked on in a brown study, the refrain ringing through his brain. There came to him the memory of Hugh's old sneer as he looked at his book-shelves--whereon Nietzsche and Pascal sat cheek by jowl with _Theron Ware_ and _Robert Elsmere_--"I wonder how much of all that you really believe!" How much _did_ he really believe? "I used to read Thomas à Kempis then," he said to himself, "and Jonathan Edwards; now I read Rénan and the _Origins of Christian Mythology_!" At the chapel-gate lounged his chauffeur, awaiting orders. "Bring the car round, Hede," said Harry, "and I shan't need you after that to-night. I'll drive her myself. You can meet me at the garage."