Over sixty people were
crowded into the two small rooms, most of them boys between the ages of
twelve and sixteen, laughing, coughing, dragging their feet, shoving
the heavy benches, dropping song-books. They greeted the snow-covered
trio with a royal roar, and a few minutes later were singing, "Yes,
we'll gather at the river," at the tops of their discordant voices.
Carol sat at the wheezy organ, painfully pounding out the rhythmic
notes,--no musician she, but willing to do anything in a pinch. And
although at the pretty little church up in the Heights she never
attempted to lift her voice in song, down at the mission she felt
herself right in her element and sang with gay good-will, happy in the
knowledge that she came as near holding to the tune as half the others.
Most of the evening was spent in song, David standing in the narrow
doorway between the two rooms, nodding this way, nodding that, in a
futile effort to keep a semblance of time among the boisterous
worshipers. A short reading from the Bible, a very brief prayer, a
short, conversational story-talk from David, and the meeting broke up
in wild clamor.
Then back through the driving snow they made their way, considering the
evening well worth all the exertion it had required.
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