The lofty forehead gave promise of an idealism capable of high courage, indeed of sacrifice--a promise, however, belied somewhat by an irresolute chin partly hidden by a straggling beard.

But the face was sincere and tenderly human.

At his side upon the platform sat his wife behind a little portable organ, her face equally gentle, sincere and irresolute.
The assembly--with the extraordinary patience that characterises public assemblies--waited for the opening of the meeting, following with attentive eyes the vague and trifling movements of the man at the table.
Occasionally there was a rumble of deep voices in conversation, and in the dark corners subdued laughter--while on the front benches the animated and giggling whispering of three little girls tended to relieve the hour from an almost superhuman gravity.
At length with a sudden acquisition of resolution the evangelist glanced at his watch, rose, and catching up a bundle of hymn books from the table thrust them with unnecessary energy into the hands of a boy who sat on the side bench beside his mother.

The boy was Lawrence Gwynne.
"Take these," said the man, "and distribute them, please." Lawrence taken thus by surprise paled, then flushed a quick red.

He glanced up at his mother and at her slight nod took the books and distributed them among the audience on one side of the room while the evangelist took the other.