University of Virginia Library

8. CHAPTER VIII.
I AM INTRODUCED TO NEW CHARACTERS AND ENTER THE
SHADOW OF THE GREAT BEDLOW REVIVAL.

While Henry was a guest at my old home, Mr. Bradford
resumed his visits there. That he had had much to do with
securing my father's prosperity in his calling, I afterwards
learned with gratitude, but he had done it without his humble
friend's knowledge, and while studiously keeping aloof from
him. I never could imagine any reason for his policy in this
matter except the desire to keep out of Mrs. Sanderson's way.
He seemed, too, to have a special interest in Henry; and
it soon came to my ears that he had secured for him his place
as teacher of one of the public schools. Twice during the
young man's visit at Bradford, he had called and invited him
to an evening walk, on the pretext of showing him some of the
more interesting features of the rapidly growing little city.

Henry's plan for study was coincident with my own. We
had both calculated to perfect our preparation for college
during the winter and following spring, under private tuition;
and this work, which would be easy for me, was to be accomplished
by him during the hours left from his school duties.
I made my own independent arrangements for recitation and
direction, as I knew such a course would best please Mrs.
Sanderson, and left him to do the same on his return. With
an active temperament and the new stimulus which had come
to me with a better knowledge of my relations and prospects,
I found my mind and my time fully absorbed. When I was
not engaged in study, I was actively assisting Mrs. Sanderson
in her affairs.

One morning in the early winter, after Henry had returned,
and had been for a week or two engaged in his school, I met

Mr. Bradford on the street, and received from him a cordial
invitation to take tea and spend the evening at his home.
Without telling me what company I should meet, he simply
said that there were to be two or three young people beside
me, and that he wanted Mrs. Bradford to know me. Up to
this time, I had made comparatively few acquaintances in the
town, and had entered, in a social way, very few homes.
The invitation gave me a great deal of pleasure, for Mr. Bradford
stood high in the social scale, so that Mrs. Sanderson
could make no plausible objection to my going. I was careful
not to speak of the matter to Henry, whom I accidentally
met during the day, and particularly careful not to mention
it in my father's family, for fear that Claire might feel herself
slighted. I was therefore thoroughly surprised when I entered
Mrs. Bradford's cheerful drawing-room to find there, engaged
in the merriest conversation with the family, both Henry and
my sister Claire. Mr. Bradford rose and met me at the door
in his own hospitable, hearty way, and, grasping my right hand,
put his free arm around me, and led me to Mrs. Bradford
and presented me. She was a sweet, pale-faced little woman,
with large blue eyes, with which she peered into mine with a
charming look of curious inquiry. If she had said: “I
have long wanted to know you, and am fully prepared to be
pleased with you and to love you,” she would only have put
into words the meaning which her look conveyed. I had
never met with a greeting that more thoroughly delighted me,
or placed me more at my ease, or stimulated me more to show
what there was of good in me.

“This is my sister, Miss Lester,” said she, turning to a prim
personage sitting by the fire.

As the lady did not rise, I bowed to her at a distance, and
she recognized me with a little nod, as if she would have said:
“You are well enough for a boy, but I don't see the propriety
of putting myself out for such young people.”

The contrast between her greeting and that of Mr. and Mrs.
Bradford led me to give her more than a passing look. I concluded

at once that she was a maiden of an age more advanced
than she should be willing to confess, and a person with ways
and tempers of her own. She sat alone, trotting her knees,
looking into the fire, and knitting with such emphasis as to
give an electric snap to every pass of her glittering needles.
She was larger than Mrs. Bradford, and her dark hair and
swarthy skin, gathered into a hundred wrinkles around her black
eyes, produced a strange contrast between the sisters.

Mrs. Bradford, I soon learned, was one of those women in
whom the motherly instinct is so strong that no living thing
can come into their presence without exciting their wish to
care for it. The first thing she did, therefore, after I had
exchanged greetings, was to set a chair for me at the fire,
because she knew I must be cold and my feet must be wet.
When I assured her that I was neither cold nor wet, and she
had accepted the statement with evident incredulity and
disappointment, she insisted that I should change my chair
for an easier one. I did this to accommodate her, and then
she took a fancy that I had a headache and needed a bottle
of salts. This I found in my hand before I knew it.

As these attentions were rendered, they were regarded by
Mr. Bradford with good-natured toleration, but there issued
from the corner where “Aunt Flick” sat—for from some lip I
had already caught her home-name—little impatient sniffs, and
raps upon the hearth with her trotting heel.

“Jane Bradford,” Aunt Flick broke out at last, “I should
think you'd be ashamed. You've done nothing but worry that
boy since he came into the room. One would think he was a
baby, and that it was your business to 'tend him. Just as if he
didn't know whether he was cold, or his feet were wet, or
his head ached! Just as if he didn't know enough to go to
the fire if he wanted to! Millie, get the cat for your mother,
and bring in the dog. Something must be nursed, of course.”

“Why, Flick, dear!” was all Mrs. Bradford said, but Mr.
Bradford looked amused, and there came from a corner of the
room that my eyes had not explored the merriest young laugh

imaginable. I had no doubt as to its authorship. Seeing
that the evening was to be an informal one, I had already
begun to wonder where the little girl might be, with whose face
I had made a brief acquaintance five years before, and of
whom I had caught occasional glimpses in the interval.

Mr. Bradford looked in the direction of the laugh, and exclaiming;
“You saucy puss!” started from his chair, and found
her seated behind an ottoman, where she had been quietly
reading.

“Oh, father! don't, please!” she exclaimed, as he drew her
from her retreat. She resisted at first, but when she saw that
she was fully discovered, she consented to be led forward and
presented to us.

“When a child is still,” said Aunt Flick, “I can't see the
use of stirring her up, unless it is to send her to bed.”

“Why, Flick, dear!” said Mrs. Bradford again; but Mr. Bradford
took no notice of the remark, and led the little girl to us.
She shook hands with us, and then her mother caught and
pulled her into her lap.

“Jane Bradford, why will you burden yourself with that
heavy child? I should think you would be ill.”

Millie's black eyes flashed, but she said nothing, and I had
an opportunity to study her wonderful beauty. As I looked at
her, I could think of nothing but a gypsy. I could not imagine
how it was possible that she should be the daughter of Mr. and
Mrs. Bradford. It was as if some unknown, oriental ancestor had
reached across the generations and touched her, revealing to
her parents the long-lost secrets of their own blood. Her hair
hung in raven ringlets, and her dark, healthy skin was as
smooth and soft as the petal of a pansy. She had put on a
scarlet jacket for comfort, in her distant corner, and the color
heightened all her charms. Her face was bright with intelligence,
and her full, mobile lips and dimpled chin were charged
with the prophecy of a wonderfully beautiful womanhood. I
looked at her quite enchanted, and I am sure that she was
conscious of my scrutiny, for she disengaged herself gently from

her mother's hold, and saying that she wished to finish the
chapter she had been reading, went back to her seclusion.

The consciousness of her presence in the room somehow
destroyed my interest in the other members of the family, and
as I felt no restraint in the warm and free social atmosphere
around me, I soon followed her to her corner, and sat down
upon the ottoman behind which, upon a hassock, she had ensconced
herself.

“What have you come here for?” she inquired wonderingly,
looking up into my eyes.

“To see you,” I replied.

“Aren't you a young gentleman?”

“No, I am only a big boy.”

“Why, that's jolly,” said she. “Then you can be my company.”

“Certainly,” I responded.

“Well, then, what shall we do? I'm sure I don't know
how to play with a boy. I never did.”

“We can talk,” I said. “What a funny woman your Aunt
Flick is! Doesn't she bother you?”

She paused, looked down, then looked up into my face, and
said decidedly: “I don't like that question.”

“I meant nothing ill by it,” I responded.

“Yes you did; you meant something ill to Aunt Flick.”

“But I thought she bothered you,” I said.

“Did I say so?”

“No.”

“Well, when I say so, I shall say so to her. Papa and I
understand it.”

So this was my little girl, with a feeling of family loyalty in
her heart, and a family pride that did not choose to discuss
with strangers the foibles of kindred and the jars of home life.
I was rebuked, though the consciousness of the fact came too
slowly to excite pain. It was her Aunt Flick; and a stranger
had no right to question or criticise. That was what I gathered
from her words; and there was so much that charmed me

in this fine revelation of character, that I quite lost sight of the
fact that I had been snubbed.

“She has a curious name, any way,” I said.

At this her face lighted up, and she exclaimed: “Oh! I'll
tell you all about that. When I was a little girl, ever so much
smaller than I am now, we had a minister in the house. You
know mamma takes care of everybody, and when the minister
came to town he came here, because nobody else would have
him. He stayed here ever so long, and used to say grace at
the table and have prayers. Aunt Flick was sick at the time,
and he used to pray every morning for our poor afflicted sister,
and papa was full of fun with her, just to keep up her courage,
I suppose, and called her `'Flicted,' and then he got to calling
her `Flick' for a nickname, and now we all call her Flick.”

“But does she like it?”

“Oh, she's used to it, and don't mind.”

Millie had closed her book, and sat with it on her lap, her
large black eyes looking up into mine in a dreamy way.

“There's one thing I should like to know,” said Millie,
“and that is, where all the books came from. Were they
always here, like the ground, or did somebody make them?”

“Somebody made them,” I said.

“I don't believe it,” she responded.

“But if nobody made them, how did they come here?”

“They are real things: somebody found them.”

“No, I've seen men who wrote books, and women too,” I
said.

“How did they look?”

“Very much like other people.”

“And did they act like other people?”

“Yes.”

“Well, that shows that they found them. They are humbugs.”

I laughed, and assured her that she was mistaken.

“Well,” said she, “if anybody can make books I can; and
if I don't get married and keep house I shall.”

Very much amused, I asked her which walk of life she would
prefer.

“I think I should prefer to be married.”

“You are sensible,” I said.

“Not to any boy or young man, though,” responded the
child, with peculiar and suggestive emphasis.

“And why not?”

“They are so silly;” and she gave her curls a disdainful
toss. “I shall marry a big man like papa, with gray whiskers
—somebody that I can adore, you know.”

“Well, then, I think you had better not be married,” I replied.
“Perhaps, after all, you had better write books.”

“If I should ever write a book,” said Millie, looking out of
the window, as if she were reviewing the long chain of characters
and incidents of which it was to be composed, “I should
begin at the foundation of the world, and come up through
Asia, or Arabia, or Cappadocia... and stop under palm-trees...
and have a lot of camels with bells.... I should
have a young man with a fez and an old man with a long beard,
and a chibouk, and a milk-white steed.... I should have a
maiden too beautiful for anything, and an Arab chieftain with a
military company on horseback, kicking up a great dust in the
desert, and coming after her.... And then I should have some
sort of an escape, and I should hide the maiden in a tower
somewhere on the banks of the Danube.... And then I'm
sure I don't know what I should do with her.”

“You would marry her to the young man with the fez,
wouldn't you?” I suggested.

“Perhaps—if I didn't conclude to kill him.”

“You couldn't be so cruel as that,” I said.

“Why, that's the fun of it: you can stab a man right through
the heart in a book, and spill every drop of his blood without
hurting him a particle.”

“Well,” I said, “I don't see but you have made a book already.”

“Would that really be a book?” she asked, looking eagerly
into my face.

“I should think so,” I replied.

“Then it's just as I thought it was. I didn't make a bit of
it. I saw it. I found it. They're everywhere, and people
see them, just like flowers, and pick them up and press
them.”

It was not until years after this that with my slower masculine
intellect and feebler instincts I appreciated the beauty of
this revelation and the marvelous insight which it betrayed.
These crude tropical fancies she could not entertain with any
sense of ownership or authorship. They came of themselves,
in gorgeous forms and impressive combinations, and passed
before her vision. She talked of what she saw—not of what
she made. I was charmed by her vivacity, acuteness, frankness
and spirit, and really felt that the older persons at the
other end of the drawing-room were talking common-places
compared with Millie's utterances. We conversed a long time
upon many things; and what impressed me most, perhaps, was
that she was living the life of a woman and thinking the
thoughts of a woman—incompletely, of course, and unrecognized
by her own family!

When we were called to tea, she rose up quickly and whispered
in my ear: “I like to talk with you.” As she came
around the end of the ottoman I offered her my arm, in the
manner with which my school habits had familiarized me. She
took it without the slightest hesitation, and put on the air of a
grand lady.

“Why this is like a book, isn't it?” said she. Then she
pressed my arm, and said: “notice Aunt Flick, please.”

Aunt Flick had seen us from the start, and stood with elevated
nostrils. The sight was one which evidently excited her
beyond the power of expression. She could do nothing but
sniff as we approached her. I saw a merry twinkle in Mr.
Bradford's eyes, and noticed that as he had Claire on his arm,
and Henry was leading out Mrs. Bradford, Aunt Flick was left

alone. Without a moment's thought, I walked with Millie
straight to her, and offered her my other arm.

Aunt Flick was thunder-struck, and at first could only say:
“Well! well! well!” with long pauses between. Then she
found strength to say: “For all the world like a pair of young
monkeys! No, I thank you; when I want a cane I won't
choose a corn-stalk. I've walked alone in the world so far, and
I think I can do it the rest of the way.”

So Aunt Flick followed us out, less vexed than amused, I am
sure.

There are two things which, during all my life, have been
more suggestive to me of home comforts and home delights
than any others, viz.: A blazing fire upon the hearth, and the
odor of fresh toast. I found both in Mrs. Bradford's supper-room,
for a red-cheeked lass with an old-fashioned toasting-jack
in her hand was browning the whitest bread before our
eyes, and preparing to bear it hot to our plates. The subtle
odor had reached me first in the far corner of the drawing-room,
and had grown more stimulating to appetite and the sense of
social and home comfort as I approached its source.

The fire upon the hearth is the center and symbol of the
family life. When the fire in a house goes out, it is because
the life has gone out. Somewhere in every house it burns, and
burns, in constant service; and every chimney that sends its
incense heavenward speaks of an altar inscribed to Love and
Home. And when it ceases to burn, it is because the altar is
forsaken. Bread is the symbol of that beautiful ministry of
God to human sustenance, which, properly apprehended, transforms
the homeliest meal into a sacrament. What wonder,
then, that when the bread of life and the fire on the hearth
meet, they should interpret and reveal each other in an odor
sweeter than violets—an odor so subtle and suggestive that
the heart breathes it rather than the sense!

This is all stuff and sentiment, I suppose; but I doubt
whether the scent of toast has reached my nostrils since that
evening without recalling that scene of charming domestic life

and comfort. It seemed as if all the world were in that room
—and, indeed, it was all there—all that, for the hour, we could
appropriate.

As we took our seats at the table, I found myself by the side
of Millie and opposite to Aunt Flick. Then began on the
part of the latter personage, a pantomimic lecture to her niece.
First she straightened herself in her chair, throwing out her
chest and holding in her chin—a performance which Millie
imitated. Then she executed the motion of putting some
stray hair behind her ear. Millie did the same. Then she
tucked an imaginary napkin into her neck. Millie obeyed
the direction thus conveyed. Then she examined her knife,
and finding that it did not suit her, sent it away and received
one that did.

In the mean time, Mrs. Bradford had begun to dispense the
hospitalities of the table. She was very cheerful; indeed, she
was so happy herself that she overflowed with assiduities that
ran far into superfluities. She was afraid the toast was not
hot, or that the tea was not sweet enough, or that she had forgotten
the sugar altogether, or that everybody was not properly
waited upon and supplied. I could see that all this
rasped Aunt Flick to desperation. The sniffs, which were
light at first, grew more impatient, and after Mrs. Bradford had
urged half a dozen things upon me that I did not want, and
was obliged to decline, the fiery spinster burst out with:

“Wouldn't you like to read the Declaration of Independence?
Wouldn't you like to repeat the Ten Commandments?
Wouldn't you like a yard of calico? Do have a spoon to eat
your toast with? Just a trifle more salt in your tea, please?”

All this was delivered without the slightest hesitation, and
with a rapidity that was fairly bewildering. Poor Millie was
overcome by the comical aspect of the matter, and broke out
into an irrepressible laugh, which was so hearty that it became
contagious, and all of us laughed together except Aunt Flick,
who devoted herself to her supper with imperturbable gravity.

“Why, Flick, dear!” was all that Mrs. Bradford could say

to this outburst of scornful criticism upon her well-meant courtesies.

Just as we were recovering from our merriment, there was a
loud knock at the street door. The girl with the toasting-jack
dropped her implement to answer the unwelcome summons.
We all involuntarily listened, and learned from his voice that
the intruder was a man. We heard him enter the drawing-room,
and then the girl came in and said that Mr. Grimshaw
had called upon the family. In the general confusion that followed
the announcement, Millie leaned over to me and said:
“It's the very man who used to pray for Aunt Flick.”

Mr. Bradford, of course, brought him to the tea-table at
once, where room was made for him by the side of Aunt Flick,
and a plate laid. The first thing he did was to swallow a cup
of hot tea almost at a gulp, and to send back the empty vessel
to be refilled. Then he spread with butter a whole piece of
toast, which disappeared in a wonderfully brief space of time.
Until his hunger was appeased he did not seem disposed to
talk, replying to such questions as were propounded to him
concerning himself and his family in monosyllables.

Rev. Mr. Grimshaw was the minister of a struggling Congregational
church in Bradford. He had been hard at work for
half a dozen years with indifferent success, waiting for some
manifestation of the Master which would show him that his
service and sacrifice had been accepted. I had heard him
preach at different times during my vacation visits, though Mrs.
Sanderson did not attend upon his ministry; and he had always
impressed me as a man who was running some sort of a
machine. He had a great deal to say about “the plan of salvation”
and the doctrines covered by his creed. I cannot
aver that he ever interested me. Indeed, I may say that he
always confused me. Religion, as it had been presented to
my mind, had been a simple thing—so simple that a child
might understand it. My Father in Heaven loved me; Jesus
Christ had died for me. Loving both, trusting both, and serving
both by worship, and by affectionate and helpful goodwill

toward all around me was religion, as I had learned it;
and I never came from hearing one of Mr. Grimshaw's sermons
without finding it difficult to get back upon my simple
ground of faith. Religion, as he preached it, was such a tremendous
and such a mysterious thing in its beginnings; it involved
such a complicated structure of belief; it divided God
into such opposing forces of justice and mercy; it depended
upon such awful processes of feeling; it was so much the product
of a profoundly ingenious scheme, that his sermons always
puzzled me.

As he sat before me that evening, pale-faced and thin, with
his intense, earnest eyes and solemn bearing and self-crucified
expression, I could not doubt his purity or his sincerity. There
was something in him that awoke my respect and my sympathy.

Our first talk touched only common-places, but as the meal
drew toward its close he ingeniously led the conversation into
religious channels.

“There is a very tender and solemn state of feeling in the
church,” said Mr. Grimshaw, “and a great deal of self-examination
and prayer. The careless are beginning to be thoughtful,
and the backsliders are returning to their first love. I most
devoutly trust that we are going to have a season of refreshment.
It is a time when all those who have named the name
of the Lord should make themselves ready for His coming.”

Aunt Flick started from her chair exactly as if she were
about to put on her hat and cloak; and I think that was really
her impulse; but she sat down again and listened intently.

I could not fail to see that this turn in the conversation was
not relished by Mr. Bradford; but Mrs. Bradford and Aunt
Flick were interested, and I noticed an excited look upon the
faces of both Henry and Claire.

Mrs. Bradford, in her simplicity, made a most natural response
to the minister's communication in the words: “You
must be exceedingly delighted, Mr. Grimshaw.” She said this
very sweetly, and with her cheerful smile making her whole
countenance light.

“Jane Bradford!” exclaimed Aunt Flick, “I believe you
would smile if anybody were to tell you the judgment-day had
come.”

Mrs. Bradford did not say this time: “Why, Flick, dear!”
but she said with great tenderness: “When I remember who
is to judge me, and to whom I have committed myself, I think
I should.”

“Well, I don't know how anybody can make light of such awful
things,” responded Aunt Flick.

“Of course, I am rejoiced,” said Mr. Grimshaw, at last getting
his chance to speak, “but my joy is tempered by the
great responsibility that rests upon me, and by a sense of the
lost condition of the multitudes around me.”

“In reality,” Mr. Bradford broke in, “you don't feel quite
so much like singing as the angels did when the Saviour came
to redeem the world. But then, they probably had no such
sense of responsibility as you have. Perhaps they didn't appreciate
the situation. It has always seemed to me, however, as
if that which would set an angel singing—a being who ought
to see a little further forward and backward than we can, and
a little deeper down and higher up—ought to set men and
women singing. I confess that I don't understand the long
faces and the superstitious solemnities of what is called a season
of refreshment. If the Lord is with his own, they ought
to be glad and give him such a greeting as will induce him to
remain. I really do not wonder that he flies from many congregations
that I have seen, or that he seems to resist their entreaties
that he will stay. Half the prayers that I hear sound
like abject beseechings for the presence of One who is very
far off, and very unwilling to come.”

This free expression on the part of Mr. Bradford would have
surprised me had I not just learned that the minister had at one
time been a member of his family, with whom he had been on
familiar terms; yet I knew that he did not profess to be religious
man, and that his view of the matter, whether sound or
otherwise, was from the outside. There was a subtle touch of

satire in his words, too, that did not altogether please me; but
I did not see what reply could be made to it.

Aunt Flick was evidently somewhat afraid of Mr. Bradford,
and simply said: “I hope you will remember that your child is
present.”

“Yes, I do remember it,” said he, “and what I say about it
is as much for her ears as for anybody's. And I remember
too, that, during all my boyhood, I was made afraid of religion.
I wish to save her, if I can, from such a curse. I have read
that when the Saviour was upon the earth, he took little children
in His arms and blessed them, and went so far as to say
that of such was the kingdom of heaven. If He were to come
to the earth again, He would be as apt to take my child upon
His knee as any man's and bless her, and repeat over her the
same words; and if He manifests His presence among us in any
way I do not wish to have her kept away from Him by the impression
that there is something awful in the fact that He is
here. My God! if I could believe that the Lord of Heaven
and Earth were really in Bradford, with a dispensation of faith
and mercy and love in His hands for me and mine, do you think
I would groan and look gloomy over it? Why, I couldn't eat;
I couldn't sleep; I couldn't refrain from shouting and singing.”

Mr. Grimshaw was evidently touched and impressed by Mr.
Bradford's exhibition of strong feeling, and said in a calm, judicial
way that it was impossible that one outside of the church
should comprehend and appreciate the feelings that exercised
him and the church generally. The welfare of the unconverted
depended so much upon a revival of religion within the church
—it brought such tremendous responsibilities and such great
duties—that Christian men and women were weighed down with
solemnity. The issues of eternal life and death were tremendous
issues. Even if the angels sang, Jesus suffered in the
garden, and bore the cross on Calvary; and Christians who are
worthy must suffer and bear the cross also.

“Mr. Grimshaw,” said Mr. Bradford, still earnest and excited,
“I have heard from your own lips that the fact that Christ was

to suffer and bear the cross was at least a part of the inspiration
of the song which the angels sang. He suffered and bore the
cross that men might not suffer. That is one of the essential
parts of your creed. He suffered that He might give peace to
the world, and bring life and immortality to light. You have
taught me that He did not come to torment the world, but to
save it. The religion which Christendom holds in theory is a
religion of unbounded peace and joy; that which it holds in fact
is one of torture and gloom; and I do not hesitate to say that
if the Christian world were a peaceful and joyous world, taking
all the good things of this life in gratitude and gladness, while
holding itself pure from its corruptions, and not only not fearing
death, but looking forward with unwavering faith and hope
to another and a happier life beyond, the revivals which it
struggles for would be perpetual, and the millennium which it
prays for would come.”

Then Mr. Bradford, who sat near enough to touch me, laid his
hand upon my shoulder, and said: “Boy, look at your father,
if you wish to know what my ideal of a Christian is,—a man of
cheerfulness, trust and hope, under discouragements that would
kill me. Such examples save me from utter infidelity and
despair, and, thank God, I have one such in my own home.”

His eyes filled with tears as he turned them upon his wife,
who sat watching him with intense sympathy and affection,
while he frankly poured out his heart and thought.

“I suppose,” said the minister, “that we should get no nearer
together in the discussion of this question than we did when
we were more in one another's company, and perhaps it would
be well not to pursue it. You undoubtedly see the truth in a
single aspect, Mr. Bradford; and you will pardon me for saying
that you cannot see it in the aspects which it presents to
me. I came in, partly to let you and your family know of our
plans, and to beg you to attend our services faithfully. I
hope these young people, too, will not fail to put themselves in
the way of religious influence. Now is their time. To-morrow
or next year it may be too late. Many a poor soul is obliged

to take up the lament after every revival: `The harvest is past,
the summer is ended, and my soul is not saved.' Before the
spirit takes its flight, all these precious youth ought to be
gathered into the kingdom.”

I could not doubt the sincerity of this closing utterance, for
it was earnest and tearful. In truth, I was deeply moved by it;
for while Mr. Bradford carried my judgment and opened before
me a beautiful life, I had always entertained great reverence for
ministers, and found Mr. Grimshaw's views and feelings most
in consonance with those I had been used to hear proclaimed
from the pulpit.

The fact that a revival was in progress in some of the
churches of the town, had already come to my ears.

I had seen throngs pouring into or coming out of church-doors
and lecture-rooms during other days than Sunday; and
a vague uneasiness had possessed me for several weeks. A
cloud had arisen upon my life. I may even confess that my
heart had rebelled in secret against an influence which promised
to interfere with the social pleasures and the progress in study
which I had anticipated for the winter. The cloud came nearer
to me now, and in Mr. Grimshaw's presence quite overshadowed
me. Was I moved by sympathy? Was I moved by the spirit
of the Almighty? Was superstitious fear at the bottom of it
all? Whatever it was, my soul had crossed the line of that
circle of passion and experience in whose center a great multitude
were groping and crying in the darkness, and striving to
get a vision of the Father's face. I realized the fact then and
there. I felt that a crisis in my life was approaching.

On Aunt Flick's face there came a look of rigid determination.
She was entirely ready to work, and inquired of Mr.
Grimshaw what his plans were.

“I have felt,” said he, “that the labor and responsibility are
too great for me to bear alone, and, after a consultation with
our principal men, have concluded to send for Mr. Bedlow, the
evangelist, to assist me.”

“Mr. Grimshaw,” said Mr. Bradford, “I suppose it is none of

my business, but I am sorry you have done this. I have no faith
in the man or his methods. Mrs. Bradford and her sister will
attend his preaching if they choose: I am not afraid that they
will be harmed; but I decidedly refuse to have this child of
mine subjected to his processes. Why parents will consent to
yield their children to the spiritual manipulation of strangers I
cannot conceive.”

Mr. Grimshaw smiled sadly, and said: “You assume a grave
responsibility, Mr. Bradford.”

“I assume a grave responsibility?” exclaimed Mr. Bradford:
“I had the impression that I relieved you of one. No, leave
the child alone. She is safe with her mother; and no such man
as Mr. Bedlow shall have the handling of her sensibilities.”

We had sat a long time at the tea-table, and as we rose and
adjourned to the drawing-room Mr. Grimshaw took sudden leave
on the plea that he had devoted the evening to many other calls
yet to be made. He was very solemn in his leave-taking, and
for some time after he left we sat in silence. Then Mr. Bradford
rose and paced the drawing-room back and forth, his countenance
full of perplexity and pain. I could see plainly that a
storm of utterance was gathering, but whether it would burst in
thunder and torrent, or open with strong and healing rain, was
doubtful.

At length he paused, and said: “I suppose that as a man old
enough to be the father of all these young people I ought to say
frankly what I feel in regard to this subject. I do not believe
it is right for me to shut my mouth tight upon my convictions.
My own measure of faith is small. I wish to God it were
larger, and I am encouraged to believe that it is slowly strengthening.
I am perfectly aware that I lack peace in the exact
proportion that I lack faith; and so does every man, no matter
how much he may boast. Faith is the natural and only healthy
attitude of the soul. I would go through anything to win it,
but such men as Grimshaw and Bedlow cannot help me. They
simply distress and disgust me. Their whole conception of
Christianity is cramped and mean, and their methods of operation

are unwise and unworthy. I know how Mr. Grimshaw
feels: he knows that revivals are in progress in the other
churches, and sees that his own congregation is attracted to
their meetings. He finds it impossible to keep the tide from
retiring from his church, and feels the necessity of doing something
extraordinary to make it one of the centers and receivers
of the new influence. He has been at work faithfully, in his
way, for years, and desires to see the harvest which he has been
trying to rear gathered in. So he sends for Bedlow. Now I
know all about these Bedlow revivals. They come when he
comes, and they go when he goes. His mustard-seed sprouts
at once, and grows into a great tree, which withers and dies as
soon as he ceases to breathe upon it. I never knew an instance
in which a church that had been raised out of the mire by his
influence did not sink back into a deeper indifference after he
had left it, and that by a process which is just as natural as it
is inevitable. An artificial excitement is an artificial exhaustion.
He breaks up and ruins processes of religious education
that otherwise would have gone on to perfection. He has one
process for the imbruted, the ignorant, the vicious, the stolid,
the sensitive, the delicate, the weak and the strong, the old
and the young. I know it is said that the spirit of God is with
him, and I hope it is; but one poor man like him does not
monopolize the spirit of God, I trust; nor does that spirit refuse
to stay where he is not. No, it is Bedlow—it's all Bedlow;
and the fact that a revival got up under his influence ceases
when he retires, proves that it is all Bedlow, and accounts for
the miserable show of permanently good results.”

There was great respect for Mr. Bradford in his own household,
and there was great respect for him in the hearts of the
three young people who listened to him as comparative
strangers; and when he stopped, and sank into an arm-chair,
looking into the fire, and shading his face with his two hands,
no one broke the silence. Aunt Flick had taken to her corner
and her knitting, and Mrs. Bradford sat with her hands on her
lap, as if waiting for something further.

At length Mr. Bradford looked up with a smile, and regarding
the silent group before him, said: “upon my word, we are
not having a very merry evening.”

“I assure you,” responded Henry, “that I have enjoyed
every moment of it. I could hear you talk all night.”

“So could I,” added Claire.

I could not say a word. The eyes of the minister still
haunted me: the spell of a new influence was upon me. What
Mr. Bradford had said about Mr. Bedlow only increased my
desire to hear him, and to come within the reach of his power.

“Well, children,” said Mr. Bradford, “for you will let me
call you such, I know, I have only one thing more to say to
you, and that is to stand by your Christian fathers and mothers,
and take their faith just as it is. Not one of you is old enough
to decide upon the articles of a creed, but almost any faith is
good enough to hold up a Christian character. Don't bother
yourselves voluntarily with questions. A living vine grows
just as well on a rough trellis of simple branches as on the
smoothest piece of ornamental work that can be made. If you
ever wish to change the trellis when you get old enough to do
it, be careful not to ruin the vine, that is all. I am trying to
keep my vine alive around a trellis that is gone to wreck. I believe
in God and His Son, and I believe that there is one thing
which God delights in more than in all else, and that is Christian
character. I hold to the first and strive for the last,
though I am looked upon as little better than an infidel by all
but one.”

A thrill, sympathetically felt by us all, and visible in a blush
and eyes suffused, ran through the dear little woman seated at
his side, and she looked up into his face with a trustful smile
of response.

After this it was difficult to engage in light conversation.
We were questioned in regard to our past experiences and
future plans. We looked over volumes of pictures and a cabinet
of curiosities, and Millie amused us by reading, and at an
early hour we rose to go home. Millie went to her corner as

soon as we broke up, giving me a look as she passed me. I
took the hint and followed her.

“Shall you go to hear Mr. Bedlow?” she inquired.

“I think I shall,” I answered.

“I knew you would. I should like to go with you, but you
know I can't. Will you tell me what he is like, and all about
it?”

“Yes.”

I pressed her hand and bade her “good-night.”

Mr. Bradford parted with us at the door with pleasant and
courteous words, and told Henry that he must regard the house
as his home, and assured him that he would always find a welcome
there. I had noticed during the evening a peculiarly affectionate
familiarity in his tone and bearing toward the young man.
I could not but notice that he treated him with more consideration
than he treated me. I went away feeling that there were
confidences between them, and suffered the suspicion to make
me uneasy.

I walked home with Henry and Claire, and we talked over
the affairs of the evening together. Both declared their adhesion
to Mr. Bradford's views, and I, in my assumed pride of
independent opinion, dissented. I proposed to see for myself.
I would listen to Mr. Bedlow's preaching. I was not afraid of
being harmed, and, indeed, I should not dare to stay away
from him.

As I walked to The Mansion, I found my nerves excited in a
strange degree. The way was full of shadows. I started at
every noise. It was as if the spiritual world were dropped
down around me, and I were touched by invisible wings, and
moved by mysterious influences. The stars shivered in their
high places, the night-wind swept by me as if it were a weird
power of evil, and I seemed to be smitten through heart and
brain by a nameless fear. As I kneeled in my accustomed
way at my bed I lost my confidence. I could not recall my
usual words or frame new ones. I lingered on my knees like
one crushed and benumbed. What it all meant I could not

tell. I only knew that feelings and influences which long had
been gathering in me were assuming the predominance, and
that I was entering upon a new phase of experience. At last
I went to bed, and passed a night crowded with strange dreams
and dreary passages of unrefreshing slumber.