Dr. Lyman Beecher, the well-known American Presbyterian minister, once engaged to preach for a country minister on exchange, and the Sabbath proved to be one excessively stormy, cold, and uncomfortable. It was in mid-winter, and the snow was piled all along in the roads, so as to make the passage very difficult. Still the minister urged his horse through the drifts, put the animal into a shed, and went in. As yet there was no person in the house, and after looking about, the old gentleman—then young—took his seat in the pulpit. Soon the door opened, and a single individual walked up the aisle, looked about, and took a seat. The hour came for commencing service, but no more hearers. Whether to preach to such an audience was a question, and it was one which Lyman Beecher was not long in deciding. He felt that he had a duty to perform, and he had no right to refuse to do it because only one man could reap the benefit of it, and accordingly he went through all the services, praying, singing, preaching, and the benediction, with only one hearer. And when all was over, he hastened down from the desk to speak to his congregation, but he had departed. A circumstance so rare was referred to occasionally, but twenty years after it was brought to the doctor's mind quite strangely. Traveling somewhere in Ohio, the doctor alighted from the stage one day, when a gentleman stepped up and spoke to him, familiarly calling him by name. "I do not remember you," said the doctor. "I suppose not," said the stranger; "but we once spent two hours together in a house alone in a storm." "I do not recall it, sir," added the old man; "pray, when was it?" "Do you remember preaching, twenty years ago, in such a place, to a single person?" "Yes, sir," said the doctor, grasping his hand, "and if you are the man, I have been wishing to see you ever since." "I am the man, sir; and that sermon saved my soul and made a minister of me, and yonder is my church! The converts of that sermon, sir, are all over Ohio."—Exchange.