"You do not know what you are saying," she said, in low and trembling voice. "I have not been to a Sabbath-school in seven years, and I never taught anybody anything in my life."

It was true that he did not know. It seemed to him such a very little thing that he had asked. However, he spoke gently enough as one who was courteous, even when he could not quite comprehend.

"Then is not to-day a good time to commence? You will surely never have a better opportunity."

But she shook her head, and turned quite away from him, walking down among the trees where no people were. Her joy was all gone, and her pleasant time. She had meant to go to Sabbath-school; to sit down quietly in some body's class and learn, oh! a very great deal during the next hour. Now she was all stirred up, and could not go anywhere.

As for Mr. Roberts, he went back to the large class who were waiting for him. And those two boys hovered around the edge of that feast like hungry creatures who yet had never learned to come to the table and take their places. Flossy looked at them; at first indignantly, as at miserable beings who had spoiled her pleasure; then she became fascinated by their bright, dirty faces and roguish ways. She edged a little nearer to them. Boys she was afraid of; she knew nothing about them. Had they been a little older, and been dressed well, and been of the stamp of boys who knew how to bring her handkerchief to her when she dropped it, she would have known what to say to them. But boys who were not more than twelve or fourteen, and who were both ragged and dirty, were new phases of life to her.

"Why don't you go to Sunday-school?" she questioned at last, with a timid air. She could at least ask that. They were not the least timid as to answering; the older and the dirtier of the two turned his roguish eyes on her and surveyed her from head to foot before he said:

"Why don't you?"

Flossy was unprepared for this question, but she answered quickly and truthfully:

"Because I am afraid to go."

Both boys stared, and then laughed, and the other younger one said:

"So be we."

"I suppose we are both very silly," Flossy said. "But I have not been to Sunday-school for so long that I have forgotten all about it. Let's have one of our own that we are not afraid to go to."

And she sat bravely down on the stump at her feet; her mood had changed very suddenly; only yesterday she had read a verse in that Bible, and it thrilled her then, and came to her now:

"The man departed and told the Jews that it was Jesus who had made him whole."

Suppose she were the man, and these were the Jews, could she not say to them, "He has made me whole"? She could tell them about that pool, and about the sick man. It wouldn't be teaching in Sunday-school, but it would be doing the best thing that she could.

It suddenly occurred to her to wonder where the lesson was that was being taught this morning, and she consulted the lesson leaf that Mr. Roberts had left in her hand. The glow on her face deepened and spread as she recognized the very story which had so filled her heart the day before! What if the great Physician had actually selected her to tell of that miracle of healing to these two neglected ones! Surely they were not so formidable as the Jews! But how in the world to begin was a bewilderment. Clearly she must decide at once if she was to have any class, for her two boys began to look about them, and show signs of flight.

"Did you ever hear about a wonderful spring that used to cure people?"

"Lots of 'em. I used to live right by one that cured the rheumatiz."

"But this one would cure other things, only it wouldn't cure people all the time. There was just one time in the year when it would do it; and then the one that got in first was the only one cured."

Her listeners looked skeptical.

"What was that for?" queried the bolder of the two. "Why didn't it cure but one?"

"I don't know," Flossy said. "There are ever so many things that I know that I can't tell why they are so. For instance, I don't know why that spring you have been telling me about cures the rheumatism, but I know it does, for you told me so."

"No more do I," the boy said, promptly, having in his heart a rising respect for the young teacher and her story.

Then this new beginner, with the air of a diplomatist, told all the details of this wonderful cure, without once mentioning the name of either person or place. An innate sense of the human heart told her that "Jerusalem" and "Jesus" were both probably connected in the minds of these two with the Bible, and their appearance told her that they were likely to be skeptical as to the interest of Bible stories. But, like all ignorant persons, there was a credulous side to their nature. It is surprising what marvelous stories people are prepared to receive and credit, provided only that they do not come from the Bible, with a "Thus saith the Lord" to vouch for them. Then, indeed, they are apt to become "unreasonable" and "improbable." Presently her boys volunteered some remarks and asked some questions.

"Jolly! that fellow must have felt good: I guess he wanted to run all around the country and tell about it. Where was this spring, and what was the man's name that cured him?"

The other chimed in: "Yes, and how did he do it? That's what I'm after. And is he dead? 'cause I don't hear of no such cures now-days."

Then was Flossy tremulous of heart. She had become eagerly interested in her story and her boys. Would the charm that she had woven be broken the moment they knew the story's origin? But of course she must tell them, for what good else would the story do?

"He is dead," she said, slowly, answering the last question first. "That is, he is what you call dead. But, of course, you know as well as I do that that doesn't mean what it seems to; it means simply that he doesn't live in the same place that he once did. He went to heaven to live ever so many years ago."

She waited to feel the effect of this announcement. The boys were silent and grave. They had evidently heard of heaven, and had some measure of respect for the name. The new teacher did not know what to say next. The boys helped her. The younger one drew a heavy sigh.

"Well, all I've got to say is, I wish he was alive now," he said, in a regretful tone, "'cause my mother has been sick longer than thirty-eight years; she has been sick about all her life, and she is real bad now, so she can't walk at all. I s'pose he could cure her if he was here."

"I suppose he could cure her now." Flossy said this slowly, reverently, looking earnestly at the boy, hoping to convey to him a sense of her meaning. He looked utterly puzzled. Light began to dawn on the face of the older boy.

"She's been tellin' us one of them Bible stories," he said, speaking not to Flossy, but to his companion, and assuming an injured air, as if a wrong had been done them.

Flossy spoke quickly:

"Of course I have. I thought you wanted to hear something that really happened, and not a made up story." This seemed to be an appeal to their dignity, and they eyed her reflectively.

"How do you know it happened?" ventured the younger one.

Flossy gave a rapid and animated answer.

"There are about a hundred reasons why I know it; it would take me all day to tell you half of them. But one is, that I read it in a book which good men who know a great deal, and who have been studying all their lives to find out about it, say they know is true; and I believe what they tell me about Washington and Lincoln and other men whom I never saw, so I ought to believe them when they tell me about this man."

"But there's one thing you don't know. You don't know that he can cure folks now, and he don't do it." This was spoken with a quiet positiveness, and with the air that said, "That can't be disputed, and you know it can't."

Flossy hesitated just a moment; the glow on her face deepened and spread. Then she answered in much the same tone that the boy had used:

"I know he can, and I have good reason for knowing. I'll tell you a secret; you are the very first persons I have told about it, but he has cured me. I have been sick all my life, when I came here to Chautauqua I was sick. I could not do anything that I was made to do, and I kept doing things all the time that were not meant for me to do, but he has cured me."

The boys looked at her in absolute incredulous wonder.

"Was you sick in bed when you came?" ventured one of them at last.

"No; it is not that kind of sickness that I mean. That is when the body is sick, the body that when the soul goes away looks like nothing but marble, can not move, nor feel, nor speak; that isn't of much consequence, you know, because we are sure that the soul will go away from it after awhile. It is this soul of mine that is going to live forever that was cured."

"How do you know it was?" came again from these wondering boys. Flossy smiled a rare, bright smile that charmed them.

"If yours had been cured you would not ask me that question," she said; "you would know how I know it. But I can't tell you how it is don't you know there are some things that you are sure of that you can't explain? You are sure you can think, aren't you? but how would you set to work to explain to me that you are sure? The only way that you can know how is by going to this doctor and getting cured; then you will understand."

"I'd like him if he would cure folks' bodies," began the boy who had a sick mother, speaking in a doubtful, somewhat dissatisfied tone.

"He does," Flossy said, quickly. "Don't people's bodies get well sometimes? and who can cure bodies except the one who made them? If you want your mother cured you ought to try him. If she is to be made well you may be sure that he can do it; but why should he so long as you do not care enough about it to ask him?"

There was a rush and a bustle among the crowds in the distance. Sunday-school session was over, and the great company were moving for seats for the morning service. The boys took the alarm and fled, each glancing back to nod and smile at the bright apparition who had told them a story. Flossy picked up her Bible; she had not needed to use it during this talk. The story of Bethesda had burned itself so into her heart with that morning reading that she had no need to look at it again. She gave a thoughtful little sigh.

"I don't know about that being teaching," she said within her heart, "but I certainly told them about Jesus, and I told them it was Jesus who had 'made me whole.' I made my own experience 'witness' for me to that degree. If that is what they mean by teaching I like to do it. I mean to go to Sunday-school just as soon as I get home, and if I find out that they just tell about things as they are in the Bible I can do it. I can make the boys listen to me, I know."

Bright little fairy that she was! There was a new glow about her face. She was waking to the thought that there was such a thing as power over people's brains. No danger but she will use her knowledge. Let me tell you another thing that Chautauqua did for her. It planted the seed that shall blossom into splendid teaching. There was one teacher who gave many glances that morning to the little group around that old tree stump. Mr. Roberts, from his point of observation, not far away, watched this scene from beginning to end. It fascinated him. He saw the timid beginning and the ever-increasing interest, until, when Flossy closed her Bible and arose, he turned his eyes from her with a quiet smile in them, and to himself he said: "Unless I am very greatly mistaken she has found something that she can do."



CHAPTER XX.

PEOPLE WHO, "HAVING EYES, SEE NOT."

"Girls!" said Eurie, as she munched a doughnut, which she had brought from the lunch-table with her, and lounged on a camp-chair, waiting for the afternoon service, "do you know that Flossy taught a class in Sunday-school this morning?"

"Taught a class!" repeated both Marion and Ruth in one voice, and with about equal degrees of amazement.

"She did, as true as the world. That is, she must have been teaching. The way of it was this: I went to see the little midgets exhibit themselves, and when I came out of the tent and walked over toward the stand, there sat Flossy on that old stump just back of the stand, and before her were two of the roughest-looking boys that ever emerged from the backwoods. They were ragged and dirty and wild; and as wicked little imps as one could find, I am sure. Flossy was talking to them, and she had a large Bible in her lap and one of those Lesson Leaves that they flutter about here so much; and—well, altogether it was an amazing sight! She was certainly talking to them with all her might, and they were listening; and it is my opinion that she was trying to play Sunday-school teacher, and give them a lesson. You know she is an imitative little sheep, and always was."

"Nonsense!" Ruth said, and she seemed to speak more sharply than the occasion warranted. "Just as if Flossy Shipley couldn't have anything to say to two boys but what she found in the Bible! Little she knows what is in it, for that matter. I suppose she wandered out that way because she did not know what else to do with herself, and talked to the boys by way of amusement. She has often amused herself in that way, I am sure."

"Ah, yes; but these specimens were rather too youthful and dirty for that sort of amusement, and she had a Bible in her lap."

"What of that! Bibles are as common as leaves here. I found two lying on the seat which I took this morning. People seem to think the art of stealing has not found its way here."

"Flossy is changed," interrupted Marion. "The mouse is certainly different from what I ever saw her before; she seems so quiet and self-sustained. I thought she was bored. Why, I expected her to hail a trip to her dear Saratoga with absolute delight! She belongs to just the class of people who would find the intellectual element here too strong for her, and would have to flutter off in that direction in self-defense. Ruthie, you have the temper of an angel not to fly out at me for bringing in Saratoga every few minutes. It isn't with 'malice aforethought,' I assure you. I forget your projected scheme whenever I speak of it; but you must allow me to be astonished over Flossy's refusal to go with you. Something has come over the mousie that is not explainable by any of the laws of science with which I am acquainted."

"Don't trouble yourself to apologize, I beg. I hope you do not think I am so foolish as to care anything about your hints as to Saratoga. Of course I recognize my right in this world to be governed by my own tastes and inclinations. I have enjoyed that privilege too long to be disturbed by trifles." This from Ruth; but I shall have to admit that it was very stiffly spoken, and if she had but known it, indicated that she did care a great deal. In truth she was very sore over her position and her plans. She who had prided herself on her intellectuality bored to the very point of leaving, and Flossy, who had been remarkable for nothing but flutter and fashion, actually so interested that she could not be coaxed into going away! What was it that interested her? That was the question which interested and puzzled Ruth. She studied over it during all the time that Marion and Eurie were chatting about the morning service.

Flossy was different; there was no shutting one's eyes to that fact. The truth was that she had suddenly seemed to have little in common with her own party. She certainly said little to them; she made no complaints as to inconveniences, even when they amounted to positive annoyances with the rest of the party; she had given up afternoon toilets altogether, and in fact the subject of dress seemed to be one that had suddenly sunken into such insignificance as to cease to claim her thoughts at all.

Grave changes these to be found in Flossy Shipley. Then, too, she had taken to wandering away alone in the twilight; during the short spaces between services she was nowhere to be found, but the Chautauqua bell brought her back invariably in time to make ready for the next service. "There is certainly more to the little mouse than I ever expected before. If Chautauqua wakes our wits as it has Flossy's we shall have reason to bless the day that Dr. Vincent invented it." This Ruth heard from Marion as she roused herself from her reverie to give attention to what the girls were saying. They had got back to a discussion of Flossy again. It was a subject that someway annoyed Ruth, so she dismissed it, and made ready for the afternoon meeting, whither they all went.

To Marion the morning sermon had been an intellectual treat. She had a way of listening to sermons that would have been very disheartening to the preacher if he had known of it. She had learned how to divest herself of all personality. The subject was one that had nothing to do with her; the application of solemn truths were for the people around her who believed in these things, but never for her; so she listened and enjoyed, just as she enjoyed a book or a picture, just as if she had no soul at all, nothing but an intellect.

It was very rare indeed that an arrow from any one's quiver touched her. But there was one single sentence in Dr. Pierce's sermon that was destined to haunt her. Said he: "When the blind man was questioned he couldn't argue, he didn't try to; but he could stand up there before them and say, 'Whereas I was blind, now I see; make the most of that.' And wasn't it an unanswerable argument? There is no argument like it. When men are honest and earnest and spiritual in Wall Street, it tells."

Now that was just the kind of sentence to delight Marion's heart. The inconsistencies of Christians was one of her very strong points, she saw them bristling out everywhere, and she looked about her with a satisfied smile on her face that so large a company of them were getting so sharp a thrust as this.

And suddenly there flashed across her brain an utterly new thought. "Whereas I was blind, now I see." "Perhaps," she said to herself—"perhaps I am blind. What if that should be the only reason why these things are not to me as they are to others. How do I know, after all, but there may really be a spiritual blindness, and that it may be holding me? How do I know but that the reason some of these poor ignorant people whom I meet are so firm in their belief of Christ and heaven is because they have had just this experience?

"'Whereas I was blind, now I see!' How can I possibly tell but that this may be the case? I wonder what I do think anyway? Do I really think that all these men gathered here are either deceived or deceivers? One or the other they must be—and either position is too silly to sustain—or else I must be blind. If there should be such a thing as seeing, and I discover it too late! If there is a too late to this thing, and I do not find it out simply because I am blind, what then? The sun shines, of course, though I dare say an entirely blind man doesn't believe it. Doesn't have an idea anyway what it is—how can he?"

Over and over did she revolve this sentence, and look at it from every attainable standpoint. No use to try to shut it off, back it came. All the clatter with which she had amused herself during the interval between meetings had not banished it. No sooner was she seated under those trees waiting for the afternoon service than the thought presented itself for her to consider.

"I wonder if there are different degrees of moral blindness?" she said, suddenly. "People who can see just enough to enable them to keep constantly going the wrong way, so that they are no better off than the blind, except that they admit that there is such a thing as seeing. The thing is possible, I suppose."

Ruth turned and looked at her wonderingly.

"What are you talking about?" she asked at last.

"I'm moralizing," Marion said, laughing. "You yourself suggested that train of thought. I was wondering which of us was right in our notions, you or I; and, for all practical purposes, what difference it made."

"You are too high up for me to follow. I haven't the least idea what you mean."

"Why, I tell you I was contrasting our conditions. Let me see if I have a right view of them. Don't you honestly think that there is a God, and a heaven, and a hell, and that to escape the one place and secure the other certain efforts upon your part are necessary?"

"Why, of course I think so. I have never made any pretense of disbelieving all these things. I think it is foolish to do so."

"Exactly. Now for one question more: Have you made the effort that you believe to be necessary?"

"Have you been hired as an exhorter?" Ruth said, trying to laugh. "Why, no, I can not say that I have."

"Well, then, suppose you and I should both die to-night. I don't believe any of these things; you do, but you don't practice on your belief. Then, according to your own view, you will be lost forever; and, according to that same view, so shall I. Now, practically, what difference is there between us? So if it is really blindness, why may not one be totally blind as well as to have a little sight that keeps one all the time in the wrong way?"

"I dare say we are quite as well off," Ruth said, composedly; "only I think there is this point of difference between us. I think your position is silly. I don't see how any one who has studied Paley and Butler, and in fact any of the sciences, can think so foolish a thing as you pretend to. One doesn't like to be foolish, even if one doesn't happen to be a Christian."

"Foolish?" Marion repeated, and there was a fine glow on her face. "Don't you go and talk anything so wild as that! If there is any class of people in this world who profess to be simpletons, and act up to their professions, it is you people who believe everything and do nothing. Now just look at the thing for a minute. Suppose you say, 'There is a precipice over there, and every whiff of wind blows us nearer to it; we will surely go over if we sit here; we ought to go up on that hill; I know that is a safe place,' and yet you sit perfectly still. And suppose I say, 'I don't believe there is any such thing as a precipice, and I believe this is just as safe a place as there is anywhere,' and I sit still. Now I should like to know which of us was acting the sillier?"

"You would be," Ruth said, stoutly, "if you persisted in disbelieving what could be proved to you so clearly that no person with common sense would think of denying it."

"Humph!" said Marion, settling back; "in that case I think there would be very little chance for each to accuse the other of folly; only I confess to you just this, Ruth Erskine, if you could prove to me that there was a precipice over there, and that we were being carried toward it, and that the hill was safe, I know in my very soul that I should get up and go to that hill. I would not be such a fool as to delay, I know I wouldn't."

"You are frank," Ruth said, and her face was flushed. "I am sure I don't see why you don't make the attempt and decide for yourself, if you feel this thing so deeply. I think there ought to be a prayer-meeting on your account. If I knew Dr. Vincent I would try to have this thing turned into a regular camp-meeting time, then you would doubtless get all the help you need."

Marion laughed good-humoredly.

"Don't waste your sarcasm on me," she said, cheerily; "keep your weapons for more impressible subjects. You know I am not in the least afraid of any such arguments. I have been talking downright truth and common sense, and you know it, and are hit; that is what makes you sarcastic. Did you know that was at the bottom of most sarcasm, my dear?"

"Do hush, please. These people before us are trying hard to hear what the speaker is saying."

This was Ruth's answer; but she had had her sermon; and of all the preachers at Chautauqua, the one who had preached to her was Marion Wilbur, the infidel school-teacher! It was her use of Dr. Pierce's arrow that had thrust Ruth. She gave herself up to the thought of it all during that wonderful afternoon meeting. Very little did she hear of the speeches, save now and then a sentence more vivid than the rest; her brain was busy with new thoughts. Was it all so very queer? Did it look to others than Marion a strange way to live? Did she actually believe these things for which she had been contending? If she did, was she in very deed an idiot? It actually began to look as though she might be. She was not wild like Eurie, nor intense and emotional, like Marion; she was still and cold, and, in her way, slow; given to weighing thoughts, and acting calmly from decisions rather than from impulse. It struck her oddly enough now that, having so stoutly defended the cardinal doctrines of Christian faith, she should have no weapons except sarcasm with which to meet a bold appeal to her inconsistency.

"When I get home from Saratoga," she said, at last, turning uneasily in her seat, annoyed at the persistency of her thoughts, "I really mean to look into this thing. I am not sure but a sense of propriety should lead one to make a profession of religion. It is, as Marion says, strange to believe as we do and not indicate it by our professions. I am not sure but the right thing for me to do would be to unite with the church. There is certainly some ground for the thrusts that Marion has been giving. My position must seem inconsistent to her. I certainly believe these things. What harm in my saying so to everybody? Rather, is it not the right thing to do? I will unite with the church from a sense of duty, not because my feelings happen to be wrought upon by some strong excitement. I wonder just what is required of people when they join the church? A sense of their own dependence on Christ for salvation I suppose. I certainly feel that. I am not an unbeliever in any sense of the word. I respect Christian people, and always did. Mother used to be a church-member; I suppose she would be now if she were not an invalid. Most of the married ladies in our set are church-members. I don't see why it isn't quite as proper for young ladies to be. I certainly mean to give some attention to this matter just as soon as the season is over at Saratoga. In the meantime I wonder when there is a train I can get, and if I couldn't telegraph to mother to send my trunks on and have them there when I arrived."



CHAPTER XXI

A "SENSE OF DUTY."

It is not so easy to get away from ones self as you might think, if you never had occasion to try it. Ruth Erskine—who honestly thought herself on the high road to heaven because she had decided to offer herself for church-membership as soon as she returned from Saratoga—did not find the comfort and rest of heart that so heroic a resolution ought to have brought.

It was in vain that she endeavored to dismiss the subject and try to decide just what new costume the Saratoga trip would demand. If she could only have gotten away from the crowd of people and out of that meeting back to the quiet of her tent, she might have succeeded in arranging her wardrobe to her satisfaction; but she was completely hedged in from any way of escape, and the inconsiderate speakers constantly made allusions that thrust the arrow further into her brain; I am not sure that it could have been said to have reached her heart.

"Who is to blame that you can not all be addressed as workers for Christ? Who is your Master? Why do you not serve him?"

These were sentences that struck in upon her just as she was deciding to have a new summer silk, trimmed with shirrings of the same material a shade darker.

"Workers!"

She did not know whether the speaker gave a peculiar emphasis to that word, or whether it only sounded so to her ears. Did this resolution that she had made put her among the workers? What was she ready to do? Teach in the Sabbath-school? Involuntarily she shrugged her shoulders; she did not like children; tract distributing, too, was hateful work, and out of style she had heard some one say. What wonderful work was to be done? She was sure she didn't know. Sewing certainly wasn't in her line; she couldn't make clothes for the poor; but, then, she could give money to buy them with. Oh, yes, she was perfectly willing to do that. And then she tried to determine whether it would be well to get a new black grenadine, or whether a black silk would suit her better. She had got it trimmed with four rows of knife pleating, headed with puffs, when she was suddenly returned to the meeting.

Somebody was telling a story; she had not been giving sufficient attention to know who the speaker was, but he told his story remarkably well. It must have been about a miserable little street boy who was sick, and another miserable street boy seemed to be visiting him.

This was where her ears took it up:

"It was up a ricketty pair of stairs, and another, and another, to a filthy garret. There lay the sick boy burning with a fever, mother and father both drunk, and no one to do anything or care anything for the boy who was fighting with death. 'Ben,' said his dirty-faced visitor, bending over him, 'you're pretty bad ain't you? Ben, do you ever pray?' 'No,' says Ben, turning fevered eyes on the questioner: 'I don't know what that is.' 'Did you know there was a man once named Jesus Christ? He come to this world on purpose to save people who are going to die. Did you ever be told about him?' 'No; who is he?' 'Why, he is God; you have to believe on him.' 'I don't know what you mean.' 'Why, ask him to save you. When you die you ask him to take you and save you. I heard about him at school.' 'Will he do it?' 'Yes, he will sure. Them says so as have tried him.' Silence in the garret, Ben with his face turned to the wall the fever growing less, the pulse growing fainter; suddenly he turns back. 'I've asked him,' he said; 'I've asked him, and he said he would.'"

Ruth looked about her nervously. People were weeping softly all around her. Marion brushed two great tears from her glowing cheeks, and Ruth, with her heart beating with such a quickened motion that it made her faint, wondered what was the matter with every one, and wished this dreadful meeting was over, or that she had gone to Saratoga on Saturday.

It was hard to go back to the puffs on that grenadine dress in the midst of all this, but with a resolute struggle she threw herself back into an argument as to whether she would stop on her way to make purchases, or run down to Albany as soon as she was comfortably settled at her hotel. Mr. Bliss was the next one who roused her.

You have never heard him sing? Then I am sorry for you. How can I tell you anything about it? You should hear Ruth tell it! How his voice rolled out and up from under those grand old trees; how distinctly every word fell on your ear, as distinctly as though you and he had been together in a little room alone, and he had song it for you.

"This loving Savior stands patiently— Though oft rejected, Calls again for thee. Calling now for thee, prodigal, Calling now for thee; Thou hast wandered far away, But he's calling now for thee."

What was the matter with everybody? Was this an army of prodigals who had gathered under the trees this Sabbath afternoon? Turn where she would they were wiping away the tears; she felt herself as if she could hardly keep back her own; and yet why should she weep? What had that song to do with her? She certainly was not a prodigal: she had never wandered, for she had never professed to be a Christian.

What strange logic, that because I have never owned my Father's love and care, therefore I am not a wanderer from him!

Ruth did not understand it; she felt almost provoked; had she not decided this very afternoon and for the first time in her life that it was fitting and eminently the proper thing to do to unite with the church, and had she not determined upon doing it just as soon as the season was over? What more could she do? Why could she not now have a little peace? If this was the "comfort" and "rest" that the Christians at Chautauqua had been talking about for a week, she was sure the less she had of them the better, for she never felt so uncomfortable in her life. Nevertheless, she adhered to her resolution.

So settled was she that it was the next proper thing to do that she staid at home from the meeting that evening to write a letter to Mr. Wayne, the gentleman who you will perhaps remember, accompanied the girls to the depot on the morning of their departure, and expressed his disgust with the whole plan.

As this is the first religious letter Miss Ruth Erskine ever wrote, you shall be gratified with a copy of it:



"DEAR HAROLD:

"I am alone in the tent this evening—the girls have all gone to meeting; but I, finding it exhaustive, not to say tiresome, to be so constantly listening to sermons, have staid at home to write to you. I have something to tell you which I know will please you. I am going to start for Saratoga to-morrow morning. I think I shall take the 10:50 train. Now don't you make up your mind to laugh at me and say that I have grown tired of Chautauqua sooner than any of the rest. It is true enough.

"You know my mode of life and my enjoyments are necessarily very different from Eurie's and Marion's. Those two naturally look upon this place as an escape from every-day drudgery; in short, as an economical place in which to enjoy a vacation and see a good deal of first-class society; for there are a great many first-class people here, there is no denying that. Not many from our set, you know, but a great many celebreties in the literary world that it is really very pleasant to see.

"I am not sorry that I came; if for nothing else I am glad to have come on the girls' account; they would hardly have ventured without me, and it is a real treat to them.

"You will wonder what has become of poor little Flossy, and want to know whether she is going to follow me to Saratoga as usual, but the little sprite refuses to go! I fancy Marion has been teasing her; you know she is very susceptible to ridicule, and it suits Marion's fancy to amuse herself at the expense of those people who weary of Chautauqua. She has attempted something of the kind on me, but, of course I am indifferent to any such shafts, having been in the habit of leading, rather than following, all my life. It seems natural, I suppose, to do so still. I think well of Chautauqua. It is a good place for people to come who have not much money to spend, and who like to be in a pleasant place among pleasant people; and who enjoy fine music, and fine lectures, and all that sort of thing, and are so trammelled by work and small means at home that they cannot cultivate these tastes. But, of course, all these things are no treat to me, and I do not hesitate to tell you that I am bored. There is too much preaching to suit my fancy—not real preaching, either, for we haven't had what you could call a sermon until to-day, but lectures, which constantly bring the same theme before you.

"Now you are not to conclude from this that I do not believe in preaching, and Sunday, and all that sort of thing; on the contrary, I believe more fully in them all than I did before I came. In fact I have this very afternoon come to a determination which may surprise you, and which is partly the occasion of my writing this letter, in order that you may know at once what to expect. Harold, as soon as the season is over, and I get back home, I am going to unite with the church? Have I astonished you! I am going to do this from a conviction of duty. You need not imagine that I have been wrought up to such a pitch of excitement that I don't know what I am about. I assure you there is nothing of the kind. I have simply concluded that it is an eminently proper thing to do. So long as I believe fully in the church and in religion, and wish to sustain both by my money and my influence, why should I not say so? That is a very simple and altogether proper way of saying it, and saves a good deal of troublesome explanation. I wonder that I haven't thought of it before.

"I do not mind telling you that it was some remarks of Marion's that first suggested the propriety of this thing to me. You know she is an infidel and I am not; and she intimated what is true enough, that I lived exactly as though I thought just as she did; so in thinking it over I concluded it was true, and that my influence ought to be with the church in this matter. Now you know, Harold, that with me to decide is to do; so this is as good as done. I should like it very well if you choose to come to the same conclusion and unite at the same time that I do. I am sure Dr. Dennis would be gratified. I don't know why we shouldn't be willing to have it known where we stand; and I know you respect the church and trust her as well as I do myself.

"I told Marion to-day 'I did not see how a person with brains could be an infidel,' or something to that effect—and I don't. I think that is such a silly view to take of life. Just as if everything could come by chance! And if God did not make everything, who did? I have no patience with that sort of thing, and I am glad to remember that you have no such tastes.

"By the way, are the Arnotts in Saratoga? I hope not, for they are such fanatics there is no comfort in meeting them, and yet one has to be civil.

"Seems to me you do not enjoy the opera as well as usual, nor the hops either. What is the matter? Do you really miss me? If there is any such foolish fancy in your heart as that, prepare to enjoy yourself next week, for I shall be with you at every one of them after Tuesday. It will take me until then to get something decent to wear.

"I hear the girls coming up the hill, and I must leave you.

"Au revoir,

"RUTH."



Folding and addressing this epistle with a satisfied air, and still full of the spirit which had prompted her to write a religious letter, Ruth, finding that Marion had come in alone, and that Flossy and Eurie were still loitering up the hill, gave herself the satisfaction of communicating her change of views.

"I have been thinking a good deal about what you said this afternoon, Marion, and there is truth in it. I do not think as you do, and I ought to take some measures to let people know it. I have the most perfect respect for and confidence in religion, and I mean to prove it by uniting with the church. I have decided to attend to that matter as soon as I get home again after the season is over. I am surprised at myself for not doing so before, for I certainly consider it eminently proper, in fact a duty."

Now, it was very provoking to have so religious a sentence as this received in the manner that it was. Marion tilted her stool back against the bed, and gave herself up to the luxury of a ringing laugh.

"Really," Ruth said, "you have returned from church in a very hilarious mood; something very funny must have happened; it can not be that anything in my sentence had to do with your amusement."

"Yes, but it has," squealed Marion, holding her sides and laughing still. "Oh, Ruthie, Ruthie, you will be the death of me! And so you think that this is religion! You honestly suppose that standing up in church and having your name read off constitutes Christianity! Don't do it, Ruthie; you have never been a hypocrite, and I have always honored you because you were not. If this is all the religion you can find, go without it forever and ever, for I tell you there is not a single bit in it."

Her laughter had utterly ceased, and her voice was solemn in its intensity.

"I don't know what you mean in the least," Ruth said, testily. "You are talking about something of which you know nothing."

"So are you. Oh, Ruthie, so are you! Yes, I know something about it; I know that you haven't reached the A, B, C, of it. Why, Ruthie, do you remember that story this afternoon? Do you remember that little boy in the garret, how he turned his face to the wall and asked God to save him? Have you done that? Do you honestly think that you, Ruth Erskine, have anything to be saved from? Don't you know the little fellow said, 'He answered.' Has He answered you? Why, Ruth, do you never listen to the church covenant? How does it read: 'That it is eminently fit and proper for those who believe that God made them to join the church?' Ruth Erskine, you can never take more solemn vows upon you than you will have to take if you unite with the church, and I beg you not to do it. I tell you it means more than that. I had a father who was a member of the church and he prayed—oh, how he prayed! He was the best man who ever lived on earth! Every one knew he was good; every one thought he was a saint; and it seems to me as though I could never love any God who did not give him a happier lot than he had as a reward for his holy life. But do you think he thought himself good? I tell you he felt that no one could be more weak and sinful and in need of saving than he was. Oh, I know the people who make up churches have more than this in them. I think it is all a deception, but it is a blessed one to have. I know these people at Chautauqua have it, hundreds of them. I see the same look in their faces that my father had in his, and if I could only get the same delusion into my heart I would hug it for my blessed father's sake; but don't you ever go into the church and subscribe to these things that they will ask of you until you have felt the same need of help and the same sense of being helped that they have. If you do, and there is a God, I would rather stand my chance with him than to have yours."

And Marion seized her hat and rushed out into the night, leaving Ruth utterly dumbfounded.



CHAPTER XXII.

ONE MINUTE'S WORK.

Marion struck out into the darkness, caring little which way she went; she had rarely been so wrought upon; her veins seemed to glow with fire. What difference did it make? she asked herself. If there was nothing at all in it, why not let Ruth amuse herself by joining the church and playing at religion? It would add to her sense of dignity, and who would be hurt by it?

There was a difficulty in the way. Turn where she would, it confronted Marion during these days. There was a solemn haunting "if" that would not be put down. What if all these things were true? She by no means felt so assured as she had once done: indeed, the foundations for her disbelief seemed to have been shaken from under her during the last week.

Remember, she had never spent a week with Christians before in her life; not, at least, a week during which she was made to realize all the time that they were Christians; that they stood on a different platform from herself.

Now, as she tramped about through the darkening woods, meeting constantly groups of people on their way home from the meeting, hearing from them snatches of what had been said and sung, she suddenly paused, and so vivid was the impression that for long afterward she could not think of it without feeling that a voice must certainly have spoken the words in her ear. Yet she recognized them as a sentence which had struck her from Dr. Pierce's sermon in the morning.

"God honors his gospel, even though preached by a bad man; honors it sometimes to the saving of a soul. But think of a meeting between the two! the sinner saved and the sinner lost, who was the means of the other's salvation." It had thrilled Marion at the time, with her old questioning thrill: What if such a thing were possible! Now it came again.

She stood perfectly still, all the blood seeming to recede from and leave her faint with the strange solemnity of the thought! What if she had this evening been preaching the gospel to Ruth! What if the words of hers should lead Ruth to think, and to hunt, and to find this light that those who were not blind—if there were any such—succeeded in finding! What if, as a result of this, she should go to heaven! and what if it were true that there was to be a judgment, and they two should meet, and then and there she should realize that it was because of this evening's talk that Ruth stood in glory on the other side of the great gulf of separation! What kind of a feeling would that be?

"Oh, if I only knew," she said aloud, sitting suddenly down on a fallen log, "if I only knew that any of these things were so! or if I could only get to imagining that they were, I would take them up and have the comfort out of them that some of these people seem to get, for I have so little comfort in my life. It can not be that it is all a farce, such as Ruth's horrid resolve would lead one to think; that is not the way that Dr. Vincent feels about it; it is not the way that Dr. Pierce preached about it this morning; it is not the way that man Bliss sings about it. There is more to it than that. My father had more than that. If he could only look down to-night and tell me whether it is so, whether he is safe and well and perfectly happy. Oh, it seems to me if I could only be sure, sure beyond a doubt that God did give an eternal heaven to my father, I could love him forever for doing that, even though there is a hell and I go to it."

Within the tent they were having talk that would seem to amount to very little. Even Eurie appeared to be subdued, and to have almost nothing to say. Ruth was roused from the half stupor of astonishment into which Marion's unexpected words had thrown her by hearing Flossy say, "Oh, Ruth, I forgot to tell you something; Mrs. Smythe stopped at the door on Saturday evening before you came home; her party leave for Saratoga to-morrow morning, and she wanted to know whether any of us would go with them."

"Did you tell her I was going?" Ruth asked, quickly. It was utterly distasteful to her to think of having Mrs. Smythe's company. She did not stop to analyze her feelings; she simply shrank from contact with Mrs. Smythe and from others who were sure to be of her stamp.

"No," Flossy said, "I did not know what you had decided upon; I said it was possible that you might want to go, but some one joined us just then and the conversation changed: I did not think of it again."

"I am glad you didn't," Ruth said, emphatically. "I don't want her society. I won't go in the morning if I am to be bored with that party; I would rather wait a week."

"They are going in the morning train," Eurie said; "I heard that tall man who sometimes leads the singing say so. He said there was quite a little party to go, among them a party from Clyde, who were en route for Saratoga. That is them, you know; nearly all of them are from Clyde. 'Oh, yes,' the other man said; 'we must expect that. Of course there is a froth to all these things that must evaporate toward Saratoga, or some other resort. There is a class of mind that Chautauqua is too much for.' Think of that, Ruthie, to be considered nothing but froth that is to evaporate!"

"Nonsense!" Ruth said, sharply. She seemed to consider that an unanswerable argument, and in a sense it is. Nevertheless Eurie's words had their effect; she began to wish that letter unwritten, and to wish that she had not said so much about Saratoga, and to wish that there was some quiet way of changing her plans.

In fact, an utter distaste for Saratoga seemed suddenly to have come upon her. Conversation palled after this; Marion came in, and the four made ready for the night in almost absolute silence. The next thing that occurred was sufficiently startling in its nature to arouse them all. It was one of those sudden, careless movements that this life of ours is full of, taking only a moment of time, and involving consequences that reached away beyond time, and death, and resurrection.

"Eurie," Ruth had said, "where is your head ache bottle that you boast so much of? I believe I am going to have a sick headache."

"In my satchel," Eurie answered, sleepily. She was already in bed. "There is a spoon on that box in the corner; take a tea-spoonful." Another minute of silence, then Eurie suddenly raised her head from the pillow and looked about her wildly. The dim light of the lamp showed Ruth, slowly pulling the pins from her hair.

"Did you take it?" she asked, and her voice was full of eager, intense fright. "Ruth, you didn't take it!"

"Yes, I did, of course. What is the matter with you?"

"It was the wrong bottle. It was the liniment bottle in my satchel. I forgot. Oh, Ruth, Ruth, what will we do? It is a deadly poison."

Then to have realized the scene that followed you should have been there to sea. Ruth gave one loud shriek that seemed to re-echo through the trees, and Eurie's moan was hardly less terrible. Marion sprang out of bed, and was alert and alive in a moment.

"Ruth, lie down; Eurie, stop groaning and act. What was it? Tell me this instant."

"Oh, I don't know what it was, only he said that ten drops would kill a person, and she took a tea-spoonful."

"I know where the doctor's cottage is," said Flossy, dressing rapidly. "I can go for him." And almost as soon as the words were spoken she had slipped out into the darkness.

Ruth had obeyed the imperative command of Marion and laid herself on the bed. She was deadly pale, and Eurie, who felt eagerly for her pulse, felt in vain. Whether it was gone, or whether her excitement was too great to find it, she did not know. Meantime, Marion fumbled in Flossy's trunk and came toward them with a bottle.

"Hold the light, Eurie; this is Flossy's hair-oil. I happen to know that it is harmless, and oil is an antidote for half the poisons in the world. Ruth, swallow this and keep up courage; we will save you."

Down went the horrid spoonful, and Marion was eagerly at work chafing her limbs and rubbing her hands, hurrying Eurie meantime who had started for the hotel in search of help and hot water.

That dreadful fifteen minutes! Not one of them but that thought it was hours. They never forgot the time when they fought so courageously, and yet so hopelessly, with death. Ruth did not seem to grow worse, but she looked ghastly enough for death to have claimed her for his victim; and Flossy did not return. Eurie came back to report a fire made and water heating, and seizing a pail was about to start again, when her eye caught the open satchel, and a bottle quietly reposing there, closely corked and tied over the top with a bit of kid; she gave a scream as loud as the first had been.

"What is the matter now?" Marion said. "Eurie, do have a little common sense."

"She didn't take it!" burst forth Eurie. "It is all a mistake. It was the right bottle. Here is the other, corked, just as I put it."

Before this sentence was half concluded Ruth was sitting up in bed, and Marion, utterly overcome by this sudden revulsion of feeling, was crying hysterically. There is no use in trying to picture the rest of that excitement. Suffice it to say that the events of the next hour are not likely to be forgotten by those who were connected with them. Eurie came back to her senses first, and met and explained to the people who had heard the alarm, and were eagerly gathering with offers of help. There was much talk, and many exclamations of thankfulness and much laughter, and at last everything was growing quiet again.

"I can not find the doctor," Flossy had reported in despair. "He has gone to Mayville, but Mr. Roberts will be here in a minute with a remedy, and he is going right over to Mayville for the doctor."

"Don't let him, I beg," said Marion, who was herself again. "There is nothing more formidable than a spoonful of your hair-oil. I don't know but the poor child needs an emetic to get rid of that. Eurie, my dear, can't you impress it on those dear people that we don't want any hot water? I hear the fourth pail coming."

It was midnight before this excited group settled down into anything like quiet. But the strain had been so great, and the relief so complete, that a sleep so heavy that it was almost a stupor at last held the tired workers.

Now, what of it all? Why did this foolish mistake of bottles, which might have been a tragedy, and was nothing but a causeless excitement, reach so far with its results?

Let me tell you of one to whom sleep did not come. That was the one who but half an hour before had believed herself face to face with death! What mattered it to her that it was a mistake, and death no nearer to her, so far as she knew, than to the rest of the sleeping world?

Death was not annihilated—he was only held at bay. She knew that he would come, and that there would be no slipping away when his hand actually grasped hers. She believed in death; she had supposed herself being drawn into his remorseless grasp. To her the experience, so far as it had led her, was just as real as though there had been no mistake.

And the result? She had been afraid! All her proper resolutions, so fresh in her mind, made only that very afternoon, had been of no more help to her than so much foam. She had not so much as remembered in her hour of terror whether there was a church to join. But that there was a God, and a judgment, and a Savior, who was not hers, had been as real and vivid as she thinks it ever can be, even when she stands on the very brink.

Oh, that long night of agony! when she tossed and turned and sought in vain for an hour of rest. She was afraid to sleep. How like death this sleeping was! Who could know, when they gave themselves up to the grasp of this power, that he was not the very death angel himself in disguise, and would give them no earthly awakening forever?

What should she do? Believe in religion? Yes. She knew it was true. What then? What had Marion said? Was that all true? Aye, verily it was; she knew that, too. Had she not stood side by side with death?

The hours went by and the conflict went on. There was a conflict. Her conscience knew much more than her tongue had given it credit for knowing that afternoon. Oh, she had seen Christians who had done more than join the church! She had imagined that that act might have a mysterious and gradual change on her tastes and feelings, so that some time in her life, when she was old, and the seasons for her were over, she might feel differently about a good many things.

But that hour of waiting for the messenger of death, who, she thought, had called her, had swept away this film. "It is not teaching in Sunday-school," said her brain. "It is not tract distributing; it is not sewing societies for the poor; it is not giving or going. It is none of these things, or any of them, or all of them, as the case may be, and as they come afterward. But first it is this question: Am I my own mistress? do I belong to myself or to God? will I do as I please or as he pleases? will I submit my soul to him, and ask him to keep it and to show me what to do, or when and where to step?"

The night was utterly spent, and the gray dawn of the early sweet summer morning was breaking into the grove, and still Ruth lay with wide-open eyes, and thought. A struggle? Oh dear, yes! Such an one as she had never imagined. That strong will of hers, which had led not only herself but others, yield it, submit to other leadership, always to question: Is this right? can I go here? ought I to say that? What a thing to do! But it involved that; she knew it, felt it. She might have been blind during the week past, but she was not deaf.

How they surged over her, the sentences from one and another to whom she had listened! They were not at play, these great men. What did it mean but that there was a life hidden away, belonging to Christ? She felt no love in her heart, no longing for love, such as poor little Flossy had yearned for. She felt instead that she was equal to life; that the world was sufficient for her; that she wanted the world; but that the world was at conflict with God, and that she belonged to God, and that she should give herself utterly into his hands.

Moreover, she knew there was coming a time when the world, and Saratoga, and the season, with its pleasures, would not do. There was grim death!—he would come. She could not always get away. He was coming every hour for somebody around her. She must—yes, she must get ready for him. It would not do to be surprised again as she had been surprised last night. It was not becoming in Ruth Erskine to live so that the sound of death could palsy her limbs and blanch her cheek and make her shudder with fear. She must get where she could say calmly: "Oh, are you here? Well, I am ready."

It was just as the sun which was rising in glory forced its smiles in between the thick leaves of the Chautauqua birds' nests, and set all the little birds in a twitter of delight, that Ruth raised herself on her elbow and said aloud, and with the force that comes from a determined will that has decided something in which there has been a struggle:

"I will do it."



CHAPTER XXIII.

"I'VE BEEN REDEEMED."

"What about Saratoga?" was Eurie's first query as she awoke to life and talk again on that summer morning. "Do you think you will take the 10:50 train, Ruth?"

Ruth gave nothing more decided than a wan smile in answer, and in her heart a wonder as to what Eurie would think of her if she could have known the way in which her night was passed.

"She is more likely to stay in bed," Marion said, looking at her critically. "You will never think of trying to travel to-day, will you, Ruth? Dear me! how you look! I have always heard that hair oil was weakening, but I did not know its effects were so sudden and disastrous!" And then every one of these silly girls laughed. The disaster of the night before had reached its irresistibly comic side—to them. Only Ruth shivered visibly; it was not funny to her.

It was a very eventful day. She by no means relished the character of invalid that the girls seemed determined ought to be forced upon her and at the same time she had not the least idea of going to Saratoga. Strangely enough, that desire seemed to have utterly gone from her. She had not slept at all, but she arose and dressed herself as usual, with only one feeling strong upon her, and that was a determination to carry out the decision to which she had so recently come, and she had not the least idea how to set to work to carry it out. She went with the rest to the large tent to hear Mrs. Clark's address to primary class teachers.

"I'm not a primary class teacher, and not likely to be, but I am a woman, and gifted with the natural curiosity of that sex to know what a woman may have to say in so big a place as this. I don't see how she dares to peep." This was Eurie's explanation of her desire to go to the reception.

Ruth went because to go to meeting seemed to be the wisest way that she knew of for carrying out her decision, and a good time she had. She had not imagined that teaching primary classes was such an art, and involved so much time and brain as it did. She listened eagerly to all Mrs. Clark had to say; she followed her through the blackboard lessons with surprise and delight, and she awoke at the close of the hour to the memory that, although she had been interested as she had not imagined it possible for her to be on such a theme, she had done nothing toward her determination to make a Christian of herself, and that she knew no more how to go to work than before.

"When I do find out how to be one I know I will go to work in the Sabbath-school; I have changed my mind on that point." This she told herself softly as they went back to dinner.

It was a strange afternoon to her. She became unable to interest herself heartily in the public services; her own heart claimed her thought. It was noticeable also that for the first time Chautauqua chose this day in which to be metaphysical and scientific, to the exclusion of personal religion. Not that they were irreligious, not that they for a moment forgot their position as a great religious gathering; but there was an absence of that intense personal element in the talk which had so offended Ruth's taste heretofore, and she missed it.

She wandered aimlessly up and down the aisles, listening to sentences now and then, and sighing a little. They were eloquent, they were helpful; she could imagine herself as being in a state to enjoy them heartily, but just now she wanted nothing so much as to know what to do in order to give herself a right to membership with that great religious world. Why should Chautauqua suddenly desert her now when she so much needed its help?

"If I knew a single one of these Christian people I would certainly ask them what to do." This she said talking still to herself. She had come quite away from the meeting, and was down in one of the rustic seats by the lake side. It struck her as very strange that she had not intimate acquaintance with a single Christian. She even traveled home and tried to imagine herself in conversation on this subject with some of her friends. To whom could she go? Mr. Wayne? Why, he wouldn't understand her in the least. What a strange letter that was which she wrote him! Could it be possible that it was written only yesterday? How strange that she should have suggested to him to unite with the church! How strange that she should have thought of it herself!

There came a quick step behind her, and a voice said, "Good-evening, Miss Erskine." She turned and tried to recall the name that belonged to the face of the young man before her.

"You do not remember me?" he said, inquiringly. "I was of the party who went to Jamestown on the excursion."

"Oh, Mr. Flint," she said, smiling, and holding out her hand. "I beg pardon for forgetting; that seems about a month ago."

"So it does to me; we live fast here. Miss Erskine, I have been looking for your party; I couldn't find them. Isn't Miss Shipley in your tent? Yes, I thought so. Well, I want to see her very much. I have something to tell her that I know will give her pleasure. Perhaps you would take a message for me. I want her to know that since last week, when she told me of her Friend who had become so dear to her, I have found the truth of it. He is my Friend now, and I want to thank her for so impressing me with a desire to know him that I could not give it up."

Ruth looked utterly puzzled. Something in the young man's reverent tone, when he used the word "Friend," suggested that he could mean only the Friend for whom she herself was in looking; and yet—Flossy Shipley! What had she to do with him?

"Do you mean," she said, hesitatingly, and yet eagerly, for if he indeed meant that here was one for whom she had been looking; "do you mean that you have become a Christian?"

"It is such a new experience," he said, his face flushing, "that I have hardly dared to call myself by that name; but if to be a Christian means to love the Lord Jesus Christ, and to have given one's self, body and soul, to his service, why then I am assuredly a Christian."

This was it. There was no time to be lost. She had spent one night of horror, she could not endure another, and the day was drawing to its end. To be sure she felt no terror now, but the night might bring it back.

"How did you do it?" she asked, simply. "How?" The very simplicity of the question puzzled him. "Why, I just gave myself up to his keeping; I resolved to take a new road and follow only where he led. Miss Shipley was the one who first made me think seriously about this matter; and then I went to the service that evening, and everything that was said and sung, was said and sung right at me. I was just forced into the belief that I had been a fool, and I wanted to be something else."

"Miss Shipley!" Ruth said, brought back by that name to the wonderment. "You are mistaken. You can not mean Flossy. She isn't a Christian at all. She never so much as thinks of such things."

"Oh, you are mistaken." He said it eagerly and positively. "On the contrary, she is the most earnest and straightforward little Christian that I ever met in my life. Why, I never had anything so come to my soul as that little sentence that she said about having found a Friend.' I know it is the same one. I have seen her with you since, but not near enough to address. Her name is Flossy; I heard her called so that day on the boat."

"Flossy!" Ruth said it again, in a bewildering tone, and rising as she spoke. "I am going to find her; I want to understand this mystery. I will give her your message, Mr. Flint, but I think there is a mistake." Saying which she bade him a hasty good-afternoon, for the flutter of a scarlet shawl had reached her eyes. No one but Flossy wore such a wrap as that. She wanted to see her at once, and she didn't want Mr. Charlie Flint to be along. She went forward with rapid steps to meet her, and slipping an arm within hers, they turned and went slowly back over the mossy path.

"Flossy, I want you to tell me something. I have heard something so strange; I think it is not so, but you can tell me. I want to know if you think you are a Christian?"

I wonder if Flossy has any idea, even now, how strangely Ruth's heart beat as she asked that simple question. It seemed to involve a great deal to her. She waited for the answer.

There was no hesitation and no indecision about Flossy's answer. Her cheeks took a pink tint, but her voice was clear.

"I know I am, Ruth. I do not even have to speak with hesitancy. I am so sure that Christ is my Friend, and I grow so much surer of it every day, that I can not doubt it any more than I can doubt that I am walking down this path with you."

And then, again, Ruth's astonishment was in part lost in that absorbing question:

"How did you get to be one?"

"It is a simple little story," Flossy said. And then she began at the beginning and told her little bit of experience, fresh in her heart, dating only a few days back, and full to the brim with peace and gladness to her.

"But I don't see," Ruth said, perplexed. "I don't find out what to do. I want to be told how to do it, and none of you tell me; you seem to have just resolved about it, and not done anything. I have gone so far myself. Such a night as last night was, Flossy! Oh, you can never imagine it!"

And then she told her story, as much of it as could be told; of the horror and the thick darkness that had enveloped her she could only hint.

What an eager flash there was in Flossy's bright eyes as she listened.

"When you said that!" she began, eagerly, as Ruth paused. "When you said, 'I will do it.' What then? Did you feel just as you did before?"

"No," Ruth said, "not at all. The night had gone by that time. As I looked about me I realized that it was daylight, and I fancied that my feelings were the result of a highly excited state of nerves. But the resolve was not to be accounted for in any such way. I meant that. The horror, though, of which I had been telling you was quite gone. It was as if there had been a fearful storm, with the constant roll of thunder, and suddenly a calm. I hadn't the least feeling of fear or dread, and I haven't had all day; but to-night I may have the very same experience."

"No, you will not," Flossy said, her voice aglow with feeling and with joy. "Oh, Ruthie, Ruthie! There is no night! You have got beyond it. I tell you, you have come into God's light! And isn't it blessed? You are a Christian now."

"But," protested Ruth, utterly bewildered, "I do not understand you, and I don't think you understand yourself. In what way am I different from what I was yesterday? How can I be lost in God's sight one moment and accepted the next?"

"Easily; oh, so easily! Don't you see? Why, if I had been coaxing you for a year to give me something, and you had steadily refused, but if suddenly you had said to me, 'Yes. I will; I have changed my mind; I will give it to you,' wouldn't there be a difference? Wouldn't I know that I was to have it? And couldn't I thank you then, and tell you how glad I was, just the same as though I had it in my hand? It is a poor little illustration, Ruthie, but it is true that God has been calling you all your life, and if you have all the time been saying 'No,' up to that moment when you said solemnly, meaning it with all your heart, 'I will,' I tell you it makes a difference."

I can not describe to you how strangely all this sounded to Ruthie. Up to this moment she had not realized in the least that the Lord was asking her simply for a decision, and that having solemnly given it, the work, so far as she was concerned, was done, and the new relations instantly commenced. She thought it over—that sudden calming of heart—that sense of resolve—of determination, so strong, and yet so quiet. She remembered what a strange day it had been. How she had tried to keep before her mind the horror of the night, and had not been able.

She went on talking with Flossy, telling her about Charlie Flint, noticing the happy tears that glistened in Flossy's eyes as she received her message, taking in the murmured words, "To think that Christ would honor such a feeble little witnessing as that!" and realizing even then that it would be very blessed to have one say to her, "You have been the means of leading me to think about this thing." Why should she care, though, whether people thought about this thing or not? Yesterday she didn't. During all the talk she kept up this little undertone of thought, this running commentary on her sudden change of views and feelings, and wondered, and wondered, could it be possible that she was utterly changed? And yet, when she came to think of it, wasn't she? Didn't she love Christ? And then it struck her as the strangest thing in the world not to love him. How could any one be so devoid of heart as that? Why, a mere man, to have done one-half of what Christ had done for her, would have received undying love and service.

As they walked they neared the stand, and there came just at that moment a burst of music, one of those strange, thrilling tunes such as none but the African race ever sing. The words were familiar, and yet to Ruth they were new:

"There is a fountain filled with blood, Drawn from Immanuel's veins, And sinners, plunged beneath that flood. Lose all their guilty stains."

A sinner! Was she, Ruth Erskine, a sinner? Yesterday she had not liked it to be called a prodigal. But to-day, oh yes. Was there a greater sinner to be found than she? How long she had known this story! How long she had known and believed of a certainty that Jesus Christ lived and died that she might have salvation, and yet she had never in her life thanked him for it! Nay, she had spurned and scorned his gift! So much worse than though she had not believed it at all! For then at least she could not have been said to have met him with the insult of indifference.

Then the chorus swelled out on the still air. Only those who heard it under the trees at Chautauqua have the least idea how it sounded; only those who hear it, as Ruth Erskine did, can have the least idea how it sounded to her.

"I've been redeemed, I've been redeemed!"

Over and over the strain repeated. Now in clear soprano tones, and anon rolled out from the grand bass voices. And then the swelling unison:

"I've been redeemed— Been washed in the blood of the Lamb."

The girls had stopped, and almost held their breaths to listen. They stood in silence while verse after verse with its triumphant swell of chorus rolled out to them. The great tears gathered slowly in Ruth's eyes, until, as the last echo died away, she turned to Flossy, and her voice was clear and triumphant:

"I believe I have. Flossy, I believe I have. It is a glorious thought, and a wonderful one. It almost frightens me. And yet it thrills me with perfect delight. The fountain is deep enough for us all—for them and for me. I have 'been redeemed,' and if God will help me I will never forget it again."



CHAPTER XXIV.

SWORD THRUSTS.

By the next morning it became clear to our girls that a change of programme was a necessity. Ruth had by no means recovered from her shock and the sleepless night that followed, and some of the comforts of invalidism must be found for her. At the same time she utterly repudiated the idea of Saratoga, which was now urged upon her; it had lost its charms; neither would she go home.

"I have decided to stay until the very last meeting," she said, with quiet determination.

Flossy laughed softly; she knew what charms Chautauqua had taken on, but the others supposed it to be a whim, resulting from the ridicule she had suffered because of the Saratoga scheme.

After many plans were discussed it was finally decided that Flossy and Ruth should seek quarters at the hotel in Mayville, Ruth coming over to the meetings only when her strength and her fancy dictated, and having some of the luxuries of home about her. It seemed to fall naturally to Flossy's lot to accompany her; indeed, a barrier was in the way of either of the others being chosen. The hotel arrangement, when one took into consideration the numerous boat-rides to and from the ground, was by no means an economical proceeding, and as Flossy and Ruth were the only ones who were entirely indifferent to the demands of their purses, it must of necessity be them.

Neither of them was disposed to demur; there had never been much congeniality between these two, but they had been friendly, and now there was a subtle bond of sympathy which made them long to be together. So, during the next morning hours, those two were engaged in packing their effects and preparing for a flitting to the Mayville House. Meantime Marion and Eurie, having stood around and looked on until they were tired, departed in search of something to interest them.

"It is too early for meeting," Marion said. "There is nothing of interest until 11 o'clock. I'm sorry we missed Mrs. Clark. I like to look at her and listen to her; she is just bubbling over with enthusiasm. One can see that she thinks she means it. If I were a Sunday-school teacher I should be glad I was here, to hear her. I think it has been about the most helpful thing I have heard thus far; helpful to those who indulge in that sort of work, I mean."

"I wonder what those normal classes are like?" Eurie said, studying her programme. "We haven't been to one of those, have we? What do you suppose they do?"

Marion shrugged her shoulders.

"They are like work," she said. "'Working hours,' they are named; and I suppose some hard thinking is done. If I didn't have to teach school six hours out of every day at home I might be tempted to go in and listen to them; but I came here to play, you see, and to make money; they are not good to report about. People who stay at home and read the reported letters don't want to hear anything about the actual work; they want to know who the speaker was and how he looked, and whether his gestures were graceful, and—if it is a lady—above all, how she was dressed; if they say anything remarkably sarcastic or irresistibly funny you may venture to report it, but not otherwise, consequently reporting is easy work, if you have not too much conscience, because what you didn't see you can make up."

At the end of this harangue she paused suddenly before a tent, whence came the sound of a firm and distinct voice.

"What is this?" she said, and then she lifted a bit of the canvas and peeped in. "I'm going in here, after all," she said, withdrawing her head and explaining. "This is a normal class, I guess. That man from Philadelphia—what is his name? Tyler? Yes, that is it—J. Bennet Tyler—is leading. I like him; I like his voice ever so much; he makes you hear, whether you want to or not. Then, someway, you get a kind of a notion that he not only believes what he says but that he knows it is so, and that is all there is about it. I like to meet such people now and then, because they are so rare. Generally people act as though you could coax them out of their notions in about twenty minutes if you tried—when they are talking about religious subjects, I mean. Obstinacy is not so rare a trait where other matters are concerned. Let's go in."

"What is the subject this morning?" Eurie asked, following her guide around to the entrance, somewhat reluctantly. She was in no mood for shutting herself inside a tent, and being obliged to listen whether she wanted to or not. But Marion was in one of her positive moods this morning, and must either be followed or deserted altogether.

Mr. Tyler was reading from a slip of paper as they entered. This was the sentence he read:

"Difficulties in interpretation which arise from certain mental peculiarities of the student. Some minds, and not by any means the strongest or noblest, must always see the reason for everything."

Marion gave Eurie a sagacious nod of the head.

"Don't you see?" she said. "Now, by the peculiar way in which he read that, he made believe it was me he meant. And, by the way, I'm not sure but he is correct. I must say that I like a reason for things. But what right has he to say that that is an indication of a weak mind?"

"He didn't say so," whispered Eurie.

"Oh, yes he did; it amounted to that. There is where his peculiar use of words comes in. That man has studied words until he handles them as if they were foot-balls, and were to go exactly where he sent them."

"He is looking this way. The next thing you know he will throw some at us for whispering."

This was Ernie's attempt to quiet Marion's tongue. That or some other influence had the desired effect. She whispered no more, and it was apparent in a very few minutes that she had become intensely interested in the theme and in the way it was being handled. An eager examination of the programme disclosed what she began to suspect, that the subject was, "Difficulties in the Bible." Her intellectual knowledge of the Bible was considerable; and having read it ever since she could remember, with the express purpose of finding difficulties, it was not surprising that she had found them.

Something, either in the leader's manner of drawing out answers, or the peculiar emphasis with which he contrived to invest certain words, had the effect to cause Marion to feel as though she had been very superficial in her reasoning and childish in her objections. She grew eager her brain, accustomed to work rapidly and follow trains of thought closely, enjoyed the keen play of thought that was being drawn forth.

But there was more than that; almost unconsciously to herself this subject was assuming vital proportions to her; she did not even herself realize the intensity of the cry in her heart, "If I only knew whether these were so!" Presently the voice which had once before struck her as being so peculiar in its personality sounded distinctly down the long tent.

"Remember the conditions under which the Bible promise clear apprehension of the truth."

It chanced—at least that is the way in which we use language—it chanced that Mr. Tyler's eyes as he repeated these words rested on Marion. Speaking of it afterward she said:

"So far as the impression made on me was concerned, it was the same as though he had said: 'Do you understand what an idiot you have been not to take that cardinal point into consideration at all? Open your Bible and read, and see how like a weak-minded babe you are.'"

Beside her lay a Bible just dropped by some one who had been called out. Following out the impulse of the moment she turned to the reference, and her clear voice gave it distinctly:

"If any man will do his will, he shall know of the doctrine whether it be of God or whether I speak of myself."

The effect of this simple, straightforward and reasonable proposition, on sounding back to her spoken by her own voice, was tremendous. Very little more of the talk did she hear. A thrust, from God's own sword had reached her. What a fool she had been! What right had she to presume to give an opinion before applying the test? Had not the most common-place statements a right to be tried by their own tests? Yet she had never given this simple direction a thought.

So this was the Bible promise? "He shall know." Not that these things are so, but a more logical, more satisfactory statement to the natural heart. He shall judge for himself whether these things be so; follow the directions, and then judge by your experiences after that whether these things be true or false. Could anything be more reasonable?

"I shall never dare to say that I don't believe the Bible again, for fear some one will ask me whether I have applied the test, and if I have not what business have I to judge. That man now, if I should come in contact with him, which I shall endeavor not to do, would be sure to ask me. He has almost the same as asked it now, before all these people. He has a mysterious way of making me feel as though he was talking for my confusion and for nobody else."

This Marion told to herself as she eyed the leader, half sullenly. He had strangely disturbed her logic and set her refuge in ruins.

"Let's go," she said suddenly to Eurie. "I am tired of this; I have had enough, and more than enough." But the hour was over, and she had had all that was to be secured from that source.

All the younger portion of the congregation seemed to be rushing back up the hill again, and inquiry developed the fact that Mrs. Clark was to meet the primary workers in the large tent. It was wonderful how many people chose to consider themselves primary workers? At least they rushed to this meeting, a great army of them, as though their one object in life, was to learn how successfully to teach the little ones. Our girls all met together in the tent. Ruth and Flossy had finished their preparations, but had concluded to wait until afternoon service.

"I declare if you are not armed with a pencil and paper. Have you been seized with a mania for taking notes?" This Eurie said to Ruth. "Now I'm going to get out my note book too. Here is a card—it will hold all I care to write I dare say. Let me see, who knows but I shall go to teaching in Sabbath-school one of these days! I am going to make a list of the things which according to Mrs. Clark, we shall need."

True to her new fancy, she scribbled industriously during the session, and showed her card with glee as they left the tent.

"I've a complete list," she said. "If any of you go into the business I can supply you with the names of the necessary tools. Look!

"A blackboard.

"A picture roll.

"A punch!

"Cards.

"Brains!

"Blank book.

"Children.

"More brains!

"That last item," she said, reflectively, "is the hardest to find. I had no idea so much of that material was necessary. Now let me see what is on your papers." This even Marion stoutly resisted. And Flossy quietly hid hers in her pocket, saying with a smile:

"Mine is simply a list of things needful for such work."

If she had shown her paper it would have astonished Eurie, and it might have done her good. This was what she had written:

"What I need in order to be a successful teacher.

"Such a forgetfulness of self as shall lead me to think only of the little ones and their needs.

"Such a love for Christ as shall lead me to long after every little soul to lead it to him."

As for Marion her paper contained simply this sentence, carefully written out in German text as if she had deliberated over each letter;

"If any man will do his will, he shall know of the doctrine, whether it be of God."

They went in a body to hear Dr. Hatfield.

"I want that lecture," Marion said, "'Perils of the Hour.' I'm very anxious to know what my peril is. I know just what is hovering over every one of you, but I can't quite make up my mind as to my own state. Perhaps the distinguished gentleman can help me."

And he did. He had selected for one of the perils that which was embodied in the following ringing sentence:

"The third peril is the prevelancy of skepticism. A class of scientists have discovered that there is no God! What the fool said in his heart they proclaimed on the house-top!"

Eurie looked over at her, smiling and mischievous, and said in anything but a softly whisper, "That means you, my dear."

But Marion did not hear her; she was absorbed in the intense scathing sentences that followed. Of one thing she presently felt assured, that whoever was right or whoever was wrong in this matter, Dr. Hatfield believed with all the intensity of an intense educated intellect that God ruled. Was it probable that he had met the condition, done his will, and so knew of the doctrine? That was an hour to be remembered. Eurie ceased to whisper or to frolic; there was too much intensity, about the speaker's manner not to claim her attention. She listened as she was not in the habit of listening. She could give you a detailed account even now of that hour of thought; so could I, and I am awfully tempted; but, you see, it is only Tuesday, and the girls have six more days to spend at Chautauqua.

Both Ruth and Flossy got their crumb to think over. They discussed it at the hotel that evening.

"I tell you, Flossy, if Dr. Hatfield is correct you and I have tremendous changes to make in our way of spending the Sabbath; and I have actually prided myself on the way in which I respected the day!"

And Ruth laughed as if that were so strange a thought, now that it was hardly possible to think that she could have entertained it.

"I know," Flossy said; "and he can not but be right, for he proved his position. I am glad I heard that address. But for him, I know I should never have thought of my influence in some places where I now see I can use it. Ruth you will be struck with one thing. Now, Chautauqua is like what Madame C's school might have been, so far as study is concerned. Every day I have a new lesson, one that startles me so! I feel that there must be some mistake, or I would have heard of or thought of some of these things before. And yet they sound so reasonable when you come to think them over, that presently I am surprised that I have not felt them before. Ruthie, do you think Eurie and Marion have any interest at all?"

"No," said Ruth, positively, "I know Marion hasn't. It was only the other evening that she talked more wildly if anything than before."

About this time Marion, alone in her tent, said again, as she had said a dozen times during the last few days: "If I only knew!" And this time she added, "If I only knew how to know!"



CHAPTER XXV.

SERMONS IN CHALK.

Now, see here, Marion Wilbur, wake up and give me your attention. I want to make a speech; I've caught the infection. It's queer in a place where there is so much speech-making done that I can't have a chance to express my views."

"I'm all attention," Marion answered, turning on her pillow, and giving Eurie a sleepy stare. "What has moved you to be eloquent? Give me the subject."

"The subject is the reflex influence of preaching! It may have different effects on different natures. Its effect on mine has been marked enough. I'm thoroughly surfeited. I don't want to hear another sermon while I am here, and I don't mean to. They are all sermons. The subject may be scientific, literary or artistic, and it amounts to the same thing; they contrive to row around to the same spot from whatever point they start. Now, I came here for fun, and I'm being literally cheated out of it. So the application of my remark is, I've learned since I have been here always to have an application to everything, and this time it is that I won't go any more. I've studied the programme carefully, and I have selected just what I am going to do. That Mrs. Knox has a reception this morning. I've heard about her before; she is awfully in earnest, and awfully good. Oh, I haven't the least doubt of it; but, you see, I don't want to be good, nor to have such an uncomfortable amount of goodness about me."

"She is said to be one of the most successful Sabbath-school teachers here; and I heard a gentleman say last night that her primary class was a regular training school for young ladies in Christian work. You know she has ever so many teachers under her."

"I can't help that. I am not one of them, I am thankful to say. What do I care whether she is successful or not? That won't help me any. I know all about her. They say the young ladies in her classes are invariably converted before they have been under her influence long. So if you want to be converted you have only to go to Elmira and join her class; but as for me, I am not in the mood for that experience yet, and I am not going near her."

"What are you going to do then?"

"Just what I please! That is what I came for. Just think of the absurdity of we four girls rushing to meeting at the rate we have been doing for the last week. What do you suppose the people at home would think of us? Why, I didn't expect to hear any of their sermons when I came. I as good as promised Flossy that I would frolic about with her all the time, and now the absurd little dunce acts as if she were under a wager to be on the ground every time the bell rings! I've declared off. I can tell you to an item just what I am going to hear. There is a performance to come off this afternoon some time that I shall be ready for. I loitered behind the King tent last night, and heard him say so. That Frank Beard is going to give his chalk talk—caricatures: that I shall hear, and especially see. It will be hard work to poke a sermon into that. I guess that is to be this afternoon; it is to be some time soon, anyway, and I shall watch for it. Then there is to be another extra. Mrs. Miller is going to read a story. I can give you the title of it. I didn't sit on that horrid stump in the dark listening to Dr. Vincent for nothing. It is to be 'Three Blind Mice.' Now it stands to reason that a story with such a title will not be very far above my intellectual capacity, and it can't very well develop into a sermon, or close with a prayer-meeting. Then I'm going to the concert by the Tennesseeans;' their jargon won't hurt me; and, of course, I shall attend the President's reception. I must have a stare at him—and that is every solitary meeting I am going to attend. I've heard the last preaching that I mean to for some time."

Now this was what Eurie Mitchell said. Let me tell you a little bit about what she thought. She was by no means so indifferent, nor so bored as she would have Marion understand. She was by no means in the state of mind that Ruth had been, or that Marion was. No doubts as to the general truth of all the vital doctrines of Christianity had ever troubled her. She accepted without question the belief of the so-called Christian World. Neither was she bewildered as to what constituted Christian life. No vague notion that to unite herself with some church would let her into the charmed circle had ever befogged her brain.

On the contrary, she knew better than many a Christian does just what the Christian profession involved, and just how narrow a path ought to be walked by those professing to follow Christ. In proportion to the keenness of her sarcasm over blundering, stumbling Christians, had her eyes been open to what they ought to be.

There was just this the matter with Eurie. She knew so well what religious professions involved that she wanted to make none. She hated the thought of self-abnegation, of bridling her eager tongue, of going only where her enlightened conscience said a Christian should go, of looking out for and calling after others to go with her. She wished deliberately to ignore it all. Not forever, she would have been shocked at the thought. Some time she meant to give intense heed to these things, and then indeed the church should see what a Christian could be! But not now.

There were a hundred things laid down in her programme for the coming winter that she knew perfectly well were not the things to do or say, provided she were a Christian, and she deliberately wished to avoid the fear of becoming one. Just here she was afraid of the influence of Chautauqua.

How was it possible to attend these meetings, to listen to these daily, hourly addresses, teeming either directly or indirectly with the same thought, personal consecration, without feeling herself drawn within the circle? She would not be drawn. This was her deliberate conclusion, therefore her determination.

It was almost well for her that she could not realize on what fearfully dangerous ground she was treading! I wonder if those over whom the Lord says, "Let them alone," are ever conscious at the time that the order has gone forth, and that they are to feel their consciences pressing home this matter no more?

"Well," said Marion, after turning this resolution over in her mind for a few minutes, "I dare say you will lose a good many things worth hearing; but I have nothing to do with that—only I want you to go with me up to hear Mrs. Knox this morning. I've got to go, for I promised especially to report her for the teachers at home, and it is stupid to go alone. She won't preach, and she won't bore you, and I want you to help me remember items."

So, much against her will, Eurie was coaxed into this departure from her programme, and came back from the meeting in intense disgust.

"Talk about her not preaching," she said, venting her annoyance on Marion while she energetically brushed her hair. "Every fold of her dress preached a sermon! She makes me ache all over, she is so powerfully in earnest; and didn't she hint what angels of goodness those girls of hers were—those teachers! I'd like to know how they could be anything else but good with such an example at hand. Just think, Marion, of having the brains that that woman has, and the energy and tact and the skill of a general, and then forcing it into a Sunday-school class room for the teaching of a hundred little dots that have just tumbled out of their cradles!"

"Well, if she teaches them to tumble out on the right side so that they will come up grand men and women, what then? Isn't that an ambition worthy of her?"

"Stuff and nonsense! Don't you go to preaching. I shall go and drown myself in the lake if I hear any more of it, and then one worthless person will be out of the way. But don't you dare to ask me to go and hear that woman again! I won't give up my plans in life for hers, and she needn't hint it to me. And, Marion Wilbur, I am not going to listen to another man or woman who has the least chance to fire words right at me—now mark my words."

Full of this determination she carried it out during the afternoon, until the hour for Frank Beard's caricatures; then, secure from fear of a sermon, she came gayly down and considered herself fortunate to secure a seat directly in front of the stand and in full view of the blackboard. If you have never seen Frank Beard make pictures you know nothing about what a good time she had. They were such funny pictures! —just a few strokes of the magic crayon and the character described would seem to start into life before you, and you would feel that you could almost know what thoughts were passing in the heart of the creature made of chalk. Eurie looked, and listened, and laughed. The old deacon who thought the Sunday-school was being glorified too much had his exact counterpart among her acquaintances, so far as his looks were concerned. The three troublesome Sunday-school scholars fairly convulsed her by their life-like appearance. There was the little scamp of a boy who was revealed by the dozen to any one who took a walk down town toward the close of the day; the argumentative old man, with his nose pointing out a flaw in your reasoning or on the keen scent for a mistake; and the pert fourteen-year-old girl whose very nose, as it slightly turned upward, showed that she knew more than all the logicians and theologians in the world.

This entertainment was exactly in Eurie's line. If there was anything in the world that she was an adept at it was looking up weak points in the characters of other people; and when the silly girl with but two ideas—one of them bows and the other beaux—lived and breathed before her on the blackboard her delight reached its climax.

"She is the very picture of Nettie Arnold!" she whispered to Marion. "When I go home I mean to tell her that her photograph was displayed at Chautauqua. She is just vain enough to believe it!"

Still the fun went on. Just a few bold, rapid strokes, and some caricature breathed before them, so real that the character was guessed before the explanation was given, and the ground rang with continued and overpowering roars of laughter.

Into the midst of this entertainment came Dr. Vincent, his face aglow with the exertion of hearty laughter, every feature of it expressive of his hearty appreciation of this hour of recreation and yet every feature alive and alert with a higher and more enduring feeling.

"Frank," he said, laying a friendly hand on the artist's arm, "our time is almost up. Give us the symbol of the teacher's work."

There was an instant of rapid motion, a few skillful lines, and it needed no word of explanation to recognize the great family Bible. "Now the symbol of the teacher's hope," and on one page of the open Bible there flashed an anchor.