The One White Rose

By Mary Werner Froelich Victor Kaempfe Tina (Kaempfe) Anguish

Two clergymen, Pr. John Austin and Pr. Dr. Robert "Bob" Mon'tague, who have different perspectives about each other's lives and world views and those from their own parishes, are attempting to amend each other's issues.Through the other's eyes, they come to realize the gifts each has are the blessings they can give to others and to themselves in a troubled world, the troubles of a world before there was much of an electronic or digital era that seems to still be present in our own current day.This unique story is written by a lady from a small central Kansas farm-town community with some delightful perspectives on that day's style of living.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Christian Faith Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Jul 6, 2022
• ISBN: 9781098099206

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The One White Rose

Mary Werner Froelich, Victor Kaempfe, Tina (Kaempfe) Anguish

ISBN 978-1-0980-9919-0 (paperback)

ISBN 978-1-0980-9921-3 (hardcover)

ISBN 978-1-0980-9920-6 (digital)

Copyright © 2022 by Mary Werner Froelich, Victor Kaempfe,

and Tina (Kaempfe) Anguish

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods without the prior written permission of the publisher. For permission requests, solicit the publisher via the address below.

Christian Faith Publishing

832 Park Avenue

Meadville, PA 16335

www.christianfaithpublishing.com

Printed in the United States of America

Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Appendix

Eternity!

Intro to Four Leaf Clover

Four-Leaf Clover—Man's Dialogue

Four-Leafed Clover—Woman's Dialogue

Golden September: Version 1

Jack Frost

June

A Message to Santa

On Father's Day

When I Go with Dad a Fishin

Today's Girl

A Scarlet Line

A Motor Love Story

Our First Woman President

True Greatness

About the Author

Chapter 1

The One White Rose

There was no sound in the pastor's study save the ticking of the clock, for the minister who sat by the desk seemed lost in thought.

He had been studying the Bible, and the verses before him were the theme of his discourse for the following Sunday—his first service on his new mission, field of labor.

And I, brethren when I came to you, came not with excellency of speech or of wisdom, declaring unto you the testimony of God. For I determined not to know anything among you, save Jesus Christ and Him crucified. (1 Corinthians 2:1–2)

When his sermon had been typed and partially memorized and an outline of the same for use in the pulpit had been carefully entered in a notebook, the reverend John B. Austin leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes.

It had been a strenuous month. He had accepted the pastorate of a new church of the same denomination as his own, which had been erected in another part of Westonville and was being financed by generous and well-to-do members of the church he now served and which had been his pastorate for a number of years. The new church was a branch of St. Mark's Cathedral, the large and imposing edifice of which he felt justifiably proud. It had been dedicated Emmanuel's Mission. It was surrounded by a dense population. Many of them were foreigners, while some had never heard the gospel.

John Austin's self-appointed task, out in the slums of the city, was a gigantic undertaking, and added to his other duties as pastor of the popular St. Mark's Cathedral, it seemed a very real responsibility. But the hours for worship at Emmanuel's Mission had been arranged in a way that could not possibly conflict with the well-known regime of St. Mark's Cathedral where generation of aristocratic people had worshiped in almost the selfsame way.

Everything at St. Mark's was done quietly and unobtrusively, and because of their pastor–shepherd vigilance, few, if any, of his flock had strayed from his church.

And so for eight consecutive years, he had visited their sick, buried their dead, and led innumerable souls to Christ.

Added to this, his zeal for the Master had led him out into that part of the city where there was no immediate gospel, no church aisles covered with deep-pile velvets, no cushioned pews, no pipe organs, and no choir lofts filled with entrancing music. And the heart of John Austin went out to these people in a wave of tender compassion, a love so deep that it sought and found the hungry and erring souls. And so fervent and impassioned had been his appeal to his parishioners that his dream of erecting a mission church had become a glorious reality, and his first and long looked for service in the new church was to be held the following Sunday afternoon.

John Austin was tall, handsome, broad-shouldered, and scholarly-looking. He had a high white brow, regular features, fine serious eyes, a clear complexion, a strong jaw, and a chin that hinted of a will that could be just as adamant when certain principles for righteousness were at stake.

He had a winsome personality, and there was a radiance of inner strength and beauty stamped upon his mobile face. He was a man of culture but, paramount of all else, a man of prayer. He was loved—held in high esteem—by the people whom he so faithfully served.

Other pastors sought him out. They would come to his study, some with new and others with age-old problems of their own, and find his wise counsel an open sesame to better pastorate their own.

Every year, costly and ultramodern improvements had been added to St. Mark's Cathedral, until it had become the most beautiful as well as the most notable landmark in that part of the City.

It stood at the front entrance of a park that was surrounded with evergreen trees. On the other side, huge weeping willows were growing caressingly close, hiding the long substantial tables, the picnic impedimenta, from sight. The park was equipped with playgrounds, a recreational center fitted out in a way that would meet the needs of both old and young, with an able attendant in charge at all hours of the day to serve the public and to care for the spacious grounds, shrubbery, and beautiful flowers that extended not only to the marble portico but also to the very limen of St. Mark's Cathedral.

This was Monday. A shower had fallen at early dawn, and the air was redolent of those indefinable scents of a newly cleansed world. Long lines in the rear garden displayed neatly hung laundry whitening and sweetening in the sun that had banished the clouds.

Tantalizing aromas stole in from the parsonage kitchen, and no less sweet was the perfume of swaying honeysuckle and sweetheart roses that framed the doorway of the French windows now open to the breeze.

John Austin leaned out for a better view of the majestic hills against the distant horizon and noted, with the possessive joy that marked the soul of the artist, the splendor of their changing lights and shadows. Like sentinels, they stood in the midmorning sun as if to proclaim, And we be brethren!

‘I will lift up my eyes unto the hills from whence cometh my help,' John breathed softly. ‘My help cometh from the Lord, which made heaven and earth' (Psalm 121:1–2). ‘As the mountains are round about Jerusalem, so the Lord is round about His people from henceforth even forever' (Psalm 125:2).

The next instant, he found himself looking into the somber velvety-brown eyes of a handsome young clergyman standing on the drive.

Why, bless my soul, Robert Stanley Mon'tague? Is it really you, or am I seeing things? John asked laughingly, touching his head.

Handle me and see, Bob challenged smilingly.

Where have you dropped from so unceremoniously? But what a delightful surprise! How have you been traveling? There was a lilt of real joy in John's voice as he extended both hands in welcome and drew Bob into the room.

Ah, my car. It's being serviced at the station just around the corner, said Bob, laconically.

Serviced? Let's hope that that takes time, for you're not leaving here until we've had a chance to talk, warned John. Why, man alive, do you know how long it's been since we've seen each other?

Yes, eight years. To be exact, eight years ago today since we said goodbye on the old theological campus, hoping, like most of our classmates, I suppose, to reach our several goals at a single bound. But to me, it seems more like eighty, declared Bob thoughtfully.

John Austin was all eagerness. Where are you preaching now, Bob? You've not written, for some time? What is your viewpoint on world conditions, especially these United States? In several other countries, to me, conditions seem ghastly. Why haven't you written oftener? Are you married, Bob? How are you making it anyway? You don't seem to have changed much, unless it's for the better.

There was a loving, searching look in John's wide-set gray eyes.

Nor have you, John, Bob returned warmly. I see you have the same delightful fatherly old interrogation point. You always could ask more questions in a minute than any Philadelphia lawyer could answer in ten. Bob laughed, raising protesting hands.

Well, firstly, as we preachers say but shouldn't, I'm still serving the same church in Carolton. Secondly, since my views on the present situation seem fixed in my mind. I'd rather not go into that too deeply right now. There's so much else to say, John! "But politically our nation is in need of cleansing. In order to maintain a good government, we must once again give prayer and God's Word its rightful place, just as our forefathers did long ago. We must cast our ballot in the same God-fearing way!

If we are clean politically, handle our national funds wisely and thriftily, and we—as a nation—walk uprightly before Him, God will ‘heal our Land' of this national plague, indebtedness. If not…

Bob's shrug and the silence that followed was eloquent.

Thirdly, I am not married!

But you're wishing that you were. John thought, astute and discerning.

I have a good field, Bob continued. A large congregation, a conservative, generous, and prosperous people. My salary is, I might say, munificent. Ours is the outstanding church in Carolton. Our parsonage is large, commodious, Axminster velvet carpets throughout, antique and ultramodern furniture and furnishings, almost every conceivable electrical appliance, and a beautifully appointed house, Bob regaled!

There's a big sunny nursery with dolls, toys, and tiny furniture. The children here would love our big playgrounds, swings, sandpiles, slides, and all. It's a place where children should thrive and be happy, but it's a lonely place for me. All those lovely rooms waiting, for whom? I occupy four. My housekeeper is there only through the day, and a bachelor's needs are, as you know, restricted.

Bob thought a moment and then continued, Things are going none too well. He smiled wryly.

My church people are getting impatient. They're reminding me that teamwork is the more effective. And while they've requested—even importuned—that I remain with them, they keep insisting that a married man should be filling the pulpit. Sounds almost paradoxical, he declared a trifle bitterly.

I-I'm needing advice, and I may as well own up that that is why I am here. I'm facing a serious church problem, John. They've given me six weeks, on full salary, in which to find the solution. I'd like to talk it over with you. Your judgment is sound, and you could view the problem objectively, if it won't conflict with your own plans, if I'm not intruding, barging, in on you in this way.

Intruding? You? Never! Our latchstring is always out. It's even beckoning to you, my buddy, of those old university days! Nothing would make me happier than to help, Bob. I long to!

Characteristically, John asked no further questions, evinced no undue curiosity, but his fine eyes searched Bob's face with sincere sympathy and a devotion too deep for words.

The interview was interrupted by a manly boy of six appearing at the open window.

Mother made some gingerbread, Daddy. It's nice and hot, and it shines like satin, and—the large gray eyes were luminous—it tastes deelickety!

Did she put raisins in it, son?

Oh yes, it's buggy with 'em, the child answered blissfully.

Joy brought it. She's gone back to get some more.

Thanks for the tip! I think we'd better make investigation, Bob. Junior, this is my buddy, Dr. Robert Stanley Mon'tague. We were roommates at school, you know. John smiled reminiscently. And this is John III, our oldest son. We call him Junior.

The child, a replica—in miniature—of his father, leaned over the sill and extended his hand. How do you do, Doctor Mon'tague? he said, speaking slowly and enunciating clearly. He continued, for a moment, to regard the visitor gravely and then murmured shyly, I didn't know you had a dimple in your chin. Why, you're even nicer than your picture!

Bob laughed, displaying teeth beautifully white and even. Then he bent down and patted the small hand, and the child confided in a half whisper, I preach too. I preach to the dollies and to Rover and Prince and to Fido and Laddie, to my little brother and sister, and to a lot of children who come here to play. I preach to our kitty cats too. He added impressively, But I don't know if they'll ever get to heaven. They fight something awful. He sighed with real concern.

By the way, son, where is your little sister? John asked suddenly.

I'se wight here, Daddy, said a four-year-old girl with curls like molten gold framing her flowerlike face, as she stood on tiptoe outside the window.

She was radiantly fair, and her small mouth was as red and as sweet as a cherry. It's gingerbread, Paddy, she explained, proffering each man a bite.

Thanks, prettykins, but you'd better eat it yourself. It will make you grow. John laughed, lifting her up for a kiss. Joy, this is your Paddy's best friend, Doctor Mon'tague. Bob, Joy is one of our twins.

How do you do? She dimpled and smiled adorably.

Why, Joy! Must I call Rover and Laddie? They never forget their manners. They shake hands, John reminded her with surprise.

Joy looked ruefully at her small dimpled hands.

Fingers too ticky now, she lamented sweetly. Please 'scuse. Then as an afterthought, she added, You can shake hands wif' my muver! And she led the way to the kitchen.

Ruth looked up from her task. There was a wild-rose flush in her cheeks that accentuated her loveliness. She wore a light-blue gingham housedress with immaculate white embroidered collar and cuffs and a quaint ruffled apron.

Ruth, this is Bob. I'm proud to present him. Bob, this is Ruth, my own dear girl. Mere words are useless, in this case, Bob, for I've already told you that Ruth is the most wonderful woman in the world. John smiled with justifiable pride as he looked at his trim wife with her sunny curls and sunnier smile.

Ruth's large blue eyes looked into Bob's with the candid sweetness of a child's, and then she extended her hand in sincere welcome. You'll stay for lunch, of course?

I hardly know. I came for a talk with John, but you folks are so busy. John tells me he's had a strenuous month completing arrangements at his Mission. And so have you.

A guest like you will be refreshing, Doctor Mon'tague, Ruth assured him.

Let's make it Bob and Ruth and no formalities, please, John admonished half severely. Why, all through the years we've enjoyed your letters together. There's no call to be strange, now. The children love your picture and call you Uncle Bob.

A small boy came out from behind Ruth. This is our other twin, Roy. He and Joy are vest-pocket editions of their mother, as you can see.

How do you do? Roy extended his small hand with sweet dignity.

Both will answer to either of their two names, Rene Joy or Gene Roy, but we've noticed that double names are more effective when the children are in need of discipline, John explained with a chuckle.

Rene Joy and Gene Roy, repeated Bob. What a pleasing combination! But Goldilocks fits both of them better, he declared, laying a hand on each bright head and noting how the silken tendrils curled about his fingers.

I fink I'd like to tiss you, Roy announced, lifting his arms expectantly. Bob scooped him up onto one arm and found Joy reaching for the other and getting it.

What a sweet welcome. Bob breathed a bit awe­somely, holding them close, thrilled to the touch of their rose-leaf cheeks against his own.

With those kisses added to our invitation, how can you decline? Ruth smiled.

I don't recall that either of you kissed me, Bob teased.

Please overlook the omission, begged John. Bob's smile was sunny, and John and Ruth laughed merrily. And now that you've seen and passed judgment upon us, are you staying?

Had I better? he asked of himself with that singular but delightful innocence of speech and manner that characterized his every action and endeared him to both parishioners and colleagues.

Would the promise of chicken be any inducement? John wanted to know. It's generally conceded that the two letters P and C go hand in hand—‘P for preacher, P for plate, C for the chicken, the preacher ate.'

That's all wrong. It's past tense, Bob pointed out.

We'll make it present. Ruth is frying two chickens right now. But she, being the cook, must delineate further.

Well, there'll be brown gravy and mashed potatoes, homemade hot rolls, and new carrots, lettuce salad, fresh strawberries—all from our own garden! Ruth said impressively, checking off the various items on her shapely slim fingers. Besides, there'll be celery hearts, whipped cream for the berries, angel food cake, iced tea, and hot coffee. There now, will you stay? Her blue eyes smiled challengingly into his.

Will I? Say no more, Ruth. I couldn't bear it! Bob begged with shining eyes. I've just discovered I'm a very hungry man. You couldn't shoo me away before.

Next week, suggested John hopefully.

Six weeks from now, urged Ruth. Your whole vacation, please. We'll help you have such a good time that it won't seem long. You'll do us all good. John insists you're the finest Christian, clergyman, he's ever met.

Bob lowered his head to the two bright ones, but not soon enough, Ruth saw the mist in his eyes and understood.

She returned to the decorating of a cake. Because it's Junior's birthday, we've moved our usual dinner up to twelve today, she said, topping the cake with six white candles set in rosebud holders.

And here's the one to grow on. John laughed adding the seventh candle.

Where is he, John? I've not seen him for an hour.

You asked me to keep him out of the kitchen while you made his cake. Well, he's still weeding the garden like a man. But don't worry, I'll probably add something to his week's allowance for working on what should be a holiday. Our boy must have a happy birthday, Ruth.

He shall. Let's hurry, John! The twins can bring the dishes and set the table. You may make the coffee, John. The water's boiling.

Bob's warm brown eyes were pleading to be included in the tasks, and Ruth added pleasantly, If you will bring the ice cubes from the refrigerator, please, and drop three cubes in each glass, it will be a help, Bob. And, John dear, if you will call Junior now, he will have time to freshen up.

After grace had been said by their welcomed guest, John heaped Bob's plate with his well-known favorite white meat and with generous portions of the delectable food Ruth had prepared.

When the plates had been removed, Ruth placed the snowy cake with its seven lighted candles before their oldest child.

His hands went up in involuntary salute, and then he clapped them gleefully.

Whoopee! Isn't it beautiful? Oh, thank you, Mother! he cried.

Make one big wish, son, said John. And while you're thinking it up, the rest of us will be thinking of the wish we want to make before you blow out those candles. That's the way we do it, Bob! Our birthdays are always such fun.

Suddenly John lifted his hands and spelled quickly a few words in code, and even after those years of disuse, Bob remembered the code and caught the message with an assenting smile. But Ruth looked a bit puzzled as she said, I missed two letters. It was a compound word ending in ‘m-a-t-e-s.' It brings to mind a radio broadcast that I heard this morning about Paul and Silas being teammates as they went about, long ago, proclaiming the gospel.

It's been a long time since John taught me that code. I've almost forgotten it.

Again John lifted his hands and began to spell out more slowly,

What's in your mind, let no man know,

Nor to your friends your secrets show;

For if your friend becomes your foe,

Then every one your thoughts will know.

Ruth laughed with delight. I didn't miss one letter of that, John. It's such wise counsel. I'll have the children memorize it. If ever some friend turns foe, they'll thank their father for forewarning them.

Roy piped up, waving his spoon excitedly, I'se weady! I wish.

Shhh! warned Ruth gently. Mustn't tell, for maybe it won't come true, dear.

Roy clamped one small hand on his tightly closed lips, and as usual, Joy followed suit.

Junior, with eyes all ashine, took one deep breath and blew out the candles; and then John, to the children's great delight, intoned that all their wishes should come true.

When luncheon was over, Junior carried a plate of cake across the street to Ellen and Nelda Ransom; Ruth had heaped a dish of berries with fluffy whipped cream and bade him gather a handful of choice roses for Ellen. Ruth washed the dishes, and the children put them in their proper order, and then Junior began opening his gifts piled high upon the living room table.

Oh, Mother, it's almost like Christmas! he breathed. The ribbons and tissue wrappings. Bob nodded approvingly as Junior, with a nicety of manner all his own, thanked each donor.

All of them knew that the plaything he received would be shared equally with the twins and with those other children who came habitually that they might have some part in the happy activities of each day's program in the church parsonage.

Bob's gift lay among the other things, but it had no gala attire, no tissue and no ribbons, even though he longed to make it look festive.

It was, nevertheless, among the first gifts to be admired and gratefully acknowledged. It was a rare gift—a hand-carved, pearl-handled pocketknife, unique and delightful, which Bob had garnered from an exclusive shop in Paris.

When the lad came to the last gift on the table, he removed only the mailing wrapper and then carried the flat rectangle in its gay enclosure, almost reverently, up to his room. He left the inquisitive twins clamoring to see what was within.

It's Junior's gift, darlings. It's probably something very personal from Aunt Esther.

Possibly, a framed photograph of herself, said Ruth, with finality.

Someday perhaps soon he'll show it to you.

After Ruth had taken the twins upstairs for a nap, John explained, Ruth has had many pictures of Aunt Esther, but Junior borrows them all. He carries them up to his room. He's jealous of anything pertaining to her and insists that she is going to wait for him so that he can marry her someday.

Wait? puzzled Bob. How old is she?

Twenty six.

My, oh my! But the present generation are up and coming! Bob chuckled, emitting a low, long-drawn whistle all his own.

Bob noticed himself caught up in the happy whirl of daily tasks.

He mowed the lawn, and he and the children weeded the garden and flower beds in the early hours of the morning. He spent delightful long hours with John in his study. The children called him Uncle Bob, and they and the four dogs followed him about, worshipfully.

It's so wonderful here! he said when on Friday the two men threw off responsibilities and lay in the shade with all the enjoyment of unencumbered youth.

You don't know what this respite is doing for me, John!

But you're working too hard, Bob, John remonstrated.

Working with you folks makes me happy, makes me feel almost as if I belonged. Bob faltered in his inimitable boyish manner.

Ruth and I feel that you do belong, Bob. Frankly all three of the children would like to adopt you.

You're so definitely a family man, Bob! In fact, you should be enjoying a family of your own right now.

Why, any man with half your good looks and high standards ought to be jailed for remaining single, John chided gently.

Bob winced ever so slightly and forbore to reply.

What fine children you'd sire! What a priceless heritage would be theirs! John went on thoughtfully. You and the world are being robbed of.

Bob raised his hands protestingly. I, a doctor and a clergyman, should feel no embarrassment. But you, John, practice what you preach. What a man you are, sound to the core! And it is you, yourself, who has put all those splendid theories, advanced for me, into actual practice.

John shook his head, saying, "No credit to me, Bob. Ethics and blood are my father's pet theories. He owns and operates Mount Superior Ranch, tills almost endless acres of fertile land, and runs almost countless herds upon a thousand hills.

Blooded animals are his pride, and Mount Superior sires only the best, but fine children are really the apple of his eye. He has ten strong healthy sons and daughters, and best of all, he maintains that every child in the world should have the right to be wellborn. But you shall see for yourself when we drive out there one of these days.

John paused a moment and then continued, "He has many men in his employ, fine, stalwart cowboys who ride the range. And there's a large settlement of Mexicans, men, women, and children, who are helping in the various industries that are being carried on so successfully at this time. There is well-directed, effort, system and loyalty to be found there. My father is a man among men! The world has long needed such an one, a combination of Abraham, ‘the Patriarch,' and Abraham Lincoln, ‘the Emancipator.' We all wish he would travel and teach. He should be sent from coast to coast, and then abroad, for he could liberate men and women from the slavery of ignorance regarding what should be the simple facts of life.

Every boy and girl in America should hear his message on the sanctity of the home and the marriage relation, on the fact that our bodies are ‘temples of the living God,' not to be defiled or abused or degraded.

Oh, the appalling thousands that are born out of wedlock! Our state institutions are teeming with abnormal and unwanted children!

Someone must teach the world that the child's welfare and best interests come first. As always, we must begin with youth. Mature minds are not flexible or receptive. The hope of medical science along lines such as these lies in our younger generation.

The young must be taught scientific and religious truths regarding their individual duty toward posterity.

We stand aghast at the terrible wave of crime that is sweeping over our nation. Here is the man who can convincingly say, ‘And yet show I unto you a more excellent way.'

"Medical science and psychiatry are attempting and effecting some cures, but what is needed most is prevention, a surcease of the social sin and of the utter disregard of the Ten Commandments thundered down from Mount Sinai.

My father has the Message, but he seems to lack initiative. He's too reserved. He feels that he cannot face the public. We're not all preachers or teachers, you know, but father's life is a living gospel.' John's earnest words held conviction.

I wish my father could meet him. His own theories and doctrines and his scientific tenets would coincide to the nth degree. What a team they would make, if they would consent to go out on lecture courses here and abroad. Why not make this matter a subject of prayer, John? asked Bob suddenly, and John nodded affirmatively.

They were silent for a few moments and then Bob continued, And you are true to your family traditions. Witness your wonderful family, John. Your beautiful children, your priceless wife. Where could a man find such another? I know of no higher compliment than to say that the last chapter of the book of Proverbs might well have been written of her.

I am willing to agree with that last statement, Bob. When I found Ruth, I found my other self, my better self, he amended softly, his eyes alight with tenderness.

And you found her here in the city, Westonville. I remember the glowing letter you wrote. That was, let me see, seven years ago?

"That's right, Bob. When Ruth had finished her course in music, she returned to Westonville and resumed her work here, in the church. I, as you know, accepted this pastorate eight years ago when her father Dr. Dwight Avery retired. He had served St. Mark's for thirty years.

"Father and mother Avery lived next door to us until six months ago. Their sudden death was a great shock to all of us, especially Ruth who was their only child, but there's been no retrogression regarding her daily practice. And she's teaching our children, all of them, that show an aptitude in music. As a matter of fact, all five of us study music together.

I tell you, Bob, your church people are right! Teamwork is the thing! In the field, it is eminently desirable in the home. It's a requisite, and when sorrow comes, we face it together, declared John.

You faced double bereavement, two vacant chairs. I deeply sympathize, John, but the vacant chair I face in my home is still one of expectation!

I can't understand why a man of your culture and capabilities shouldn't have met many women who could have qualified in filling that vacant chair, said John thoughtfully. You have traveled, seen the world.

Perhaps I've met too many, John. Fine, wonderful women too. It hasn't been so much a matter of qualifications for a minister's wife. Perhaps it has been of appeal. But I'm finding it hard to put my thoughts into words.

I think I understand, but you wouldn't be expecting too much, Bob, or placing undue stress on that word, would you? asked John hesitantly.

Bob shook his head. I'm thinking of an ideal love, John, something that's never come to me. If it ever does, believe me, I will cherish and reverence it while I live, he said huskily.

You certainly have a problem there, which only God and you can solve. I know you've always had an exalted conception of love. But your standard isn't too high, I think, although, in many ways, you are an idealist.

You've wanted to write poetry, rhapsodies. You tell our children wonderful fairy tales, and you're still trying to believe in them yourself.

Why, right now, you'd like to see fairy sprites dancing allemande upon a carpet of fragrant rose petals, in the white moonlight, at the midnight hour! Bob laughed.

And something else, Bob, while we're delineating character. I suspect your name like Abou Adhem's would lead the rest in the role of those who love children.

And I'm remembering also Tennyson's poem, ‘The Holy Grail.'

Do you remember, Bob, how Sir Launfal went in search and later found it right by his own gate? I well understand your noblesse. No wonder the university students called you Sir Galahad! You were, and still are, the only man I would consider in that role, declared John stoutly. I wish.

There was a joyous bark, and a moment later, Junior and Laddie appeared. The lad's eyes were full of wonder, awe, at hearing John's declaration.

Would you? Please read it to me now, Daddy, if I get the book? pleaded Junior eagerly. The one that tells about Sir Galahad. Didn't know.

From the music room came the sound of happy voices singing in unison. It was Ruth and the twins, and at a nod from his father, the lad hurried away to join them, and presently their four voices rang out.

Sweet legend of old: Fair chalice of gold.

(Each heart has its own ‘holy grail')

Go seek it, I must: In God is my trust.

And, in Him, I never can fail.

Bob listened, enraptured. He searched and he found, he mused a tender light in his eyes.

And so will you. You'll find your teammate, your better self, if you search with the same steadfastness, predicted John with new confidence in his voice.

Chapter 2

There was silence between them for a few moments. On a bough overhead, a bird teetered and swayed in happy abandon and then burst into jubilant song as he flew away to his mate.

How about Junior's request, John? It seems so obviously important to him. A child of six is, as a rule, interested in Mother Goose's rhymes but not in this classic of Tennysons. I find myself amazed at his intelligence. His mind is, in many ways, as mature as that of a child twice his age.

"In his knowledge of the Bible, history, and music and his choice in literature, yes. He's also, what I would term, politely persistent. So don't worry about him, Bob. If Ruth were not reading those lines aloud to him, he'd be back here with the book right now. We often read Tennyson's ‘Holy Grail,' which the children seem to remember so well.

I've been thinking, Bob, he resumed suddenly about that search and of how it ended at his own gate. "I wish that your