For one brief moment he saw in vision a little ivy-coloured church in its environment of quiet country lanes in far-away England, and in the church, the family pew, where sat a man stern and strong, a woman beside him and two little boys, one, the younger, holding her hand as they sat.
Then with swift change of scene he saw a queer, rude, wooden church in the raw frontier town in the new land, and in the church himself, his brother, and between them, a fair, slim girl, whose face and voice as she sang made him forget all else in heaven and on earth.

The tides of memory rolled in upon his soul, and with them strangely mingled the swelling springs rising from this scene before him, with its marvellous setting of sky and woods and river.

No wonder he sat voiceless and without power to move.
All this Brown could not know, but he had that instinct born of keen sympathy that is so much better than knowing.

He sat silent and waited.

French turned to the index, found a hymn, and passed it over to Brown.
"Know that ?" he asked, clearing his throat.
"'For all thy saints'?
Well, rather," said Brown.