are grateful and they have expressed their gratitude in a practical way, the only way they knew. And he has accepted their offerings. What of it? Is not the servant worthy of his hire? No price can be set on a soul. So what boots this temporal reward when compared with the treasures laid up in heaven? This is unanswerable. Billy Sunday has probably asked the Lord for more reservations in the mansions yonder than any other interceder for the wayward children of men. A CHAPTER XXI CONTINUOUS PERFORMANCE Take my life and let it be Swift and beautiful for Thee . . Take my lips and let them be Filled with messages for Thee. Aimee Semple McPherson's favorite hymn. Music by WILLIAM J. KIRKPATRICK. IMEE SEMPLE MCPHERSON-each name is meaningful and all taken together express a ca reer and a character unique in this world since the first disobedience of Saint Paul's high injunction for women "not to teach, nor to usurp authority over the man, but to keep silence in the Churches." Aimee, the beloved, was perfectly mated with Robert Semple, the six-foot Scotch-Irish evangel who converted her. Aimee, the beloved, bereft by death of her partner, tried domesticity with Harold McPherson, a grocer. Aimee, the beloved, forsook kitchen and husband that the Lord might speak through one of the rarest masterpieces of His sculpture. Dedicated before she was born, consecrated one snowbound day in Ontario at the budding age of seventeen, enshrined in her own sanctuary in the bloom of her woman hood before she was thirty, behold the Priestess of the Foursquare Gospel, the healer by Faith, the Impresario of the now splendorous revival of America anchored at last on a permanent location. Gone are the halcyon days of itineracy. Going are the over-night rough-hewn tabernacles. Fading is the glory of pulpiteer masculinity. A continuous performance, seven days a week, year in and year out, with standing room at premium in a Cathedral of Evangelism, flows from the wand of the radiant daughter of the sun. And great is the guerdon laid upon her altar. Sister Aimee, "that's her," as the emancipate Corn Belt connoisseurs of California climate and cult murmur as a buxom white-clad figure wafts itself amid a bower of roses under the delicate tints of intermerging lights to the centre of the marvelously set stage of Angelus Temple. The soft curves of those shoulders and arms and hips are hiding muscles of steel that strained on tent ropes not so many years ago and now bend ever so slightly to the task of quadruple arm-linked baptisms. Luxuriant redgold hair billows over her forehead, tumbles back and is caught in coils above the nape of her comely neck. The flash of her eyes instantly anticipates the parting of her full red lips in a winsome smile or their curving and conforming with her gentle yet strong features in an expression of sweet solemnity. Every movement of her plump physique, every gesture of her graceful hands, every tone and cadence of her mellow voice is appealing, beckoning, attracting. Femininity prophetic has stepped out of Eden. This Eve is not the petite, frail, please-protect-me type. She is rich-blooded and complete like the first mother after nibbling on the apple. Yet she is not Amazonian. Her |