"No, Mr. Elderkin, no; I am always myself in the pulpit. I shall find courage there." And he did. A stranger would not have suspected that the preacher's wife lay dead at home; the same unction and earnestness that had always characterized him; the same unyielding rigidity of doctrine: "_Except ye repent, ye shall all likewise perish._" Once only--it was in the reading of the last hymn in the afternoon service--his voice broke, and he sat down half through. But as the song rose under the old roof of the meeting-house, his courage rose with it. He seemed ashamed of the transitory weakness. What right had he to bring private griefs to such a place? What right had the leader to faint, when the army were pressing forward to the triumph God had promised to the faithful? So it was in a kind of ecstasy that he rose, and joined with a firm, loud voice in the final doxology. One or two of the good old ladies, with a sad misconception of the force that was in him, and of the divine aid which seemed vouchsafed to him during the service, came to him, as he passed out, to give him greeting and a word of condolence. For that time only he passed them by, as if they had been wooden images. His spirit had been strained to its uttermost, and would bear no more. He made his way home with an ungainly, swift gait,--home to the dear bedside,--down upon his knees,--struggling with his weakness,--praying. At the tea-hour Esther knocked; but in vain. An hour after, his boy came,--came at the old woman's suggestion, (who had now the care of him,) and knelt by his side. "Reuben,--my boy!" "She's in heaven, isn't she, father?" "God only knows, my son. He hath mercy on whom He will have mercy." Small as he was, the boy flushed at this:-- "I think it's a bad God, if she isn't in heaven.' "Nay, Reuben, little one, blaspheme not: His ways are not as our ways. Kiss her now, and we will sit down to our supper."