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It was, as those who knew his methods might have expected, a suggestion of the conversation they had already overheard. He likened the little chapel, choked with umbrage and rotting in its dampness, to the gospel seed sown in crowded places, famishing in the midst of plenty, and sterile from the absorptions of the more active life around it. He pointed out again the true work of the pioneer missionary; the careful pruning and elimination of those forces that grew up with the Christian’s life, which many people foolishly believed were a part of it. “The WORLD must live and the WORD must live,” said they, and there were easy-going brethren who thought they could live together. But he warned them that the World was always closing upon–“shaddering”–and strangling the Word, unless kept down, and that “fair seemin’ settlement,” or city, which appeared to be “bustin’ and bloomin'” with life and progress, was really “hustlin’ and jostlin'” the Word of God, even in the midst of these “fancy spires and steeples” it had erected to its glory. It was the work of the missionary pioneer to keep down or root out this carnal, worldly growth as much in the settlement as in the wilderness. Some were for getting over the difficulty by dragging the mere wasted “letter of the Word,” or the rotten and withered husks of it, into the highways and byways, where the “blazin'” scorn of the World would finish it. A low, penitential groan from Deacon Shadwell followed this accusing illustration. But the preacher would tell them that the only way was to boldly attack this rankly growing World around them; to clear out fresh paths for the Truth, and let the sunlight of Heaven stream among them.

There was little doubt that the congregation was moved. Whatever they might have thought of the application, the fact itself was patent. The rheumatic Beaseleys felt the truth of it in their aching bones; it came home to the fever and ague stricken Filgees in their damp seats against the sappy wall; it echoed plainly in the chronic cough of Sister Mary Strutt and Widow Doddridge; and Cissy Appleby, with her round brown eyes fixed upon the speaker, remembering how the starch had been taken out of her Sunday frocks, how her long ringlets had become uncurled, her frills limp, and even her ribbons lustreless, felt that indeed a prophet had arisen in Israel!

One or two, however, were disappointed that he had as yet given no indication of that powerful exhortatory emotion for which he was famed, and which had been said to excite certain corresponding corybantic symptoms among his sensitive female worshipers. When the service was over, and the congregation crowded around him, Sister Mary Strutt, on the outer fringe of the assembly, confided to Sister Evans that she had “hearn tell how that when he was over at Soquel he prayed that pow’ful that all the wimmen got fits and tremblin’ spells, and ole Mrs. Jackson had to be hauled off his legs that she was kneelin’ and claspin’ while wrestling with the Sperit.”

“I reckon we seemed kinder strange to him this morning, and he wanted to jest feel his way to our hearts first,” exclaimed Brother Jonas Steers politely. “He’ll be more at home at evenin’ service. It’s queer that some of the best exhortin’ work is done arter early candlelight. I reckon he’s goin’ to stop over with Deacon Bradley to dinner.”

But it appeared that the new preacher, now formally introduced as Brother Seabright, was intending to walk over to Hemlock Mills to dinner. He only asked to be directed the nearest way; he would not trouble Brother Shadwell or Deacon Bradley to come with him.

“But here’s Cissy Appleby lives within a mile o’ thar, and you could go along with her. She’d jest admire to show you the way,” interrupted Brother Shadwell. “Wouldn’t you, Cissy?”