I'd understand. But, as it is, I feel dreadful

  humiliated."

  Revival meetings had never been held in Avonlea before.

  "Uncle" Jerry MacPherson, who was the supreme local

  authority in church matters, taking precedence of even

  the minister, had been uncompromisingly opposed to

  them. He was a stern, deeply religious Scotchman, with

  a horror of the emotional form of religion. As long as

  Uncle Jerry's spare, ascetic form and deeply-graved

  square-jawed face filled his accustomed corner by the

  northwest window of Avonlea church no revivalist might

  venture therein, although the majority of the

  congregation, including the minister, would have

  welcomed one warmly.

  But now Uncle Jerry was sleeping peacefully under the

  tangled grasses and white snows of the burying ground,

  and, if dead people ever do turn in their graves, Uncle

  Jerry might well have turned in his when the revivalist

  came to Avonlea church, and there followed the

  emotional services, public testimonies, and religious

  excitement which the old man's sturdy soul had always

  abhorred.

  Avonlea was a good field for an evangelist. The Rev.

  Geoffrey Mountain, who came to assist the Avonlea

  minister in revivifying the dry bones thereof, knew

  this and reveled in the knowledge. It was not often

  that such a virgin parish could be found nowadays, with

  scores of impressionable, unspoiled souls on which

  fervid oratory could play skillfully, as a master on a

  mighty organ, until every note in them thrilled to life

  and utterance. The Rev. Geoffrey Mountain was a good

  man; of the earth, earthy, to be sure, but with an

  unquestionable sincerity of belief and purpose which

  went far to counterbalance the sensationalism of some

  of his methods.

  He was large and handsome, with a marvelously sweet and

  winning voice - a voice that could melt into

  irresistible tenderness, or swell into sonorous appeal

  and condemnation, or ring like a trumpet calling to

  battle.

  His frequent grammatical errors, and lapses into

  vulgarity, counted for nothing against its charm, and

  the most commonplace words in the world would have

  borrowed much of the power of real oratory from its

  magic. He knew its value and used it effectively -

  perhaps even ostentatiously.

  Geoffrey Mountain's religion and methods, like the man

  himself, were showy, but, of their kind, sincere, and,

  though the good he accomplished might not be unmixed,

  it was a quantity to be reckoned with.

  So the Rev. Geoffrey Mountain came to Avonlea,

  conquering and to conquer. Night after night the church

  was crowded with eager listeners, who hung breathlessly

  on his words and wept and thrilled and exulted as he

  willed. Into many young souls his appeals and warnings

  burned their way, and each night they rose for prayer

  in response to his invitation. Older Christians, too,

  took on a new lease of intensity, and even the

  unregenerate and the scoffers found a certain

  fascination in the meetings. Threading through it all,

  for old and young, converted and unconverted, was an

  unacknowledged feeling for religious dissipation.

  Avonlea was a quiet place, - and the revival meetings

  were lively.

  When David and Mary Bell reached the church the

  services had begun, and they heard the refrain of a

  hallelujah hymn as they were crossing Harmon Andrews'

  field. David Bell left his wife at the platform and

  drove to the horse-shed.

  Mrs. Bell unwound the scarf from her bonnet and shook

  the frost crystals from it. In the porch Flora Jane

  Fletcher and her sister, Mrs. Harmon Andrews, were

  talking in low whispers. Presently Flora Jane put out

  her lank, cashmere-gloved hand and plucked Mrs. Bell's

  shawl.

  "Mary, is the elder going to testify to-night?" she

  asked, in a shrill whisper.

  Mrs. Bell winced. She would have given much to be able

  to answer "Yes," but she had to say stiffly,

  "I don't know."

  Flora Jane lifted her chin.

  "Well, Mrs. Bell, I only asked because every one thinks

  it is strange he doesn't - and an elder, of all people.

  It looks as if he didn't think himself a Christian, you

  know. Of course, we all know better, but it looks that

  way. If I was you, I'd tell him folks was talking about

  it. Mr. Bentley says it is hindering the full success

  of the meetings."

  Mrs. Bell turned on her tormentor in swift anger. She

  might resent her husband's strange behavior herself,

  but nobody else should dare to criticize him to her.

  "I don't think you need to worry yourself about the

  elder, Flora Jane," she said bitingly. "Maybe 'tisn't

  the best Christians that do the most talking about it

  always. I guess, as far as living up to his profession

  goes, the elder will compare pretty favorably with Levi

  Boulter, who gets up and testifies every night, and

  cheats the very eye-teeth out of people in the

  daytime."

  Levi Boulter was a middle-aged widower, with a large

  family, who was supposed to have cast a matrimonial eye

  Flora Janeward. The use of his name was an effective

  thrust on Mrs. Bell's part, and silenced Flora Jane.

  Too angry for speech she seized her sister's arm and

  hurried her into church.

  But her victory could not remove from Mary Bell's soul

  the sting implanted there by Flora Jane's words. When

  her husband came up to the platform she put her hand on

  his snowy arm appealingly.

  "Oh, David, won't you get up to-night? I do feel so

  dreadful bad - folks are talking so - I just feel

  humiliated."

  David Bell hung his head like a shamed schoolboy.

  "I can't, Mary," he said huskily. "'Tain't no use to

  pester me."

  "You don't care for my feelings," said his wife

  bitterly. "And Mollie won't come out because you're

  acting so. You're keeping her back from salvation. And

  you're hindering the success of the revival - Mr.

  Bentley says so."

  David Bell groaned. This sign of suffering wrung his

  wife's heart. With quick contrition she whispered,

  "There, never mind, David. I oughtn't to have spoken to

  you so. You know your duty best. Let's go in."

  "Wait." His voice was imploring.

  "Mary, is it true that Mollie won't come out because of

  me? Am I standing in my child's light?"

  "I - don't - know. I guess not. Mollie's just a foolish

  young girl yet. Never mind - come in."

  He followed her dejectedly in, and up the aisle to

  their pew in the center of the church. The building was

  warm and crowded. The pastor was reading the Bible

  lesson for the evening. In the choir, behind him, David

  Bell saw Mollie's girlish face, tinged wi
th a troubled

  seriousness. His own wind-ruddy face and bushy gray

  eyebrows worked convulsively with his inward throes. A

  sigh that was almost a groan burst from him.

  "I'll have to do it," he said to himself in agony.

  When several more hymns had been sung, and late

  arrivals began to pack the aisles, the evangelist

  arose. His style for the evening was the tender, the

  pleading, the solemn. He modulated his tones to

  marvelous sweetness, and sent them thrillingly over the

  breathless pews, entangling the hearts and souls of his

  listeners in a mesh of subtle emotion. Many of the

  women began to cry softly. Fervent amens broke from

  some of the members. When the evangelist sat down,

  after a closing appeal which, in its way, was a

  masterpiece, an audible sigh of relieved tension passed

  like a wave over the audience.

  After prayer the pastor made the usual request that, if

  any of those present wished to come out on the side of

  Christ, they would signify the wish by rising for a

  moment in their places. After a brief interval, a pale

  boy under the gallery rose, followed by an old man at

  the top of the church. A frightened, sweet-faced child

  of twelve got tremblingly upon her feet, and a dramatic

  thrill passed over the congregation when her mother

  suddenly stood up beside her. The evangelist's "Thank

  God" was hearty and insistent.

  David Bell looked almost imploringly at Mollie; but she

  kept her seat, with downcast eyes. Over in the big

  square "stone pew" he saw Eben bending forward, with

  his elbows on his knees, gazing frowningly at the

  floor.

  "I'm a stumbling block to them both," he thought

  bitterly.

  A hymn was sung and prayer offered for those under

  conviction. Then testimonies were called for. The

  evangelist asked for them in tones which made it seem a

  personal request to every one in that building.

  Many testimonies followed, each infused with the

  personality of the giver. Most of them were brief and

  stereotyped. Finally a pause ensued. The evangelist

  swept the pews with his kindling eyes and exclaimed,

  appealingly,

  "Has every Christian in this church to-night spoken a

  word for his Master?"

  There were many who had not testified, but every eye in

  the building followed the pastor's accusing glance to

  the Bell pew. Mollie crimsoned with shame. Mrs. Bell

  cowered visibly.

  Although everybody looked thus at David Bell, nobody

  now expected him to testify. When he rose to his feet,

  a murmur of surprise passed over the audience, followed

  by a silence so complete as to be terrible. To David

  Bell it seemed to possess the awe of final judgment.

  Twice he opened his lips, and tried vainly to speak.

  The third time he succeeded; but his voice sounded

  strangely in his own ears. He gripped the back of the

  pew before him with his knotty hands, and fixed his

  eyes unseeingly on the Christian Endeavor pledge that

  hung over the heads of the choir.

  "Brethren and sisters," he said hoarsely, "before I can

  say a word of Christian testimony here to-night I've

  got something to confess. It's been lying hard and

  heavy on my conscience ever since these meetings begun.

  As long as I kept silence about it I couldn't get up

  and bear witness for Christ. Many of you have expected

  me to do it. Maybe I've been a stumbling block to some

  of you. This season of revival has brought no blessing

  to me because of my sin, which I repented of, but tried

  to conceal. There has been a spiritual darkness over

  me.

  "Friends and neighbors, I have always been held by you

  as an honest man. It was the shame of having you know I

  was not which has kept me back from open confession and

  testimony. Just afore these meetings commenced I come

  home from town one night and found that somebody had

  passed a counterfeit ten-dollar bill on me. Then Satan

  entered into me and possessed me. When Mrs. Rachel

  Lynde come next day, collecting for foreign missions, I

  give her that ten dollar bill. She never knowed the

  difference, and sent it away with the rest. But I knew

  I'd done a mean and sinful thing. I couldn't drive it

  out of my thoughts. A few days afterwards I went down

  to Mrs. Rachel's and give her ten good dollars for the

  fund. I told her I had come to the conclusion I ought

  to give more than ten dollars, out of my abundance, to

  the Lord. That was a lie. Mrs. Lynde thought I was a

  generous man, and I felt ashamed to look her in the

  face. But I'd done what I could to right the wrong, and

  I thought it would be all right. But it wasn't. I've

  never known a minute's peace of mind or conscience

  since. I tried to cheat the Lord, and then tried to

  patch it up by doing something that redounded to my

  worldly credit. When these meetings begun, and

  everybody expected me to testify, I couldn't do it. It

  would have seemed like blasphemy. And I couldn't endure

  the thought of telling what I'd done, either. I argued

  it all out a thousand times that I hadn't done any real

  harm after all, but it was no use. I've been so wrapped

  up in my own brooding and misery that I didn't realize

  I was inflicting suffering on those dear to me by my

  conduct, and, maybe, holding some of them back from the

  paths of salvation. But my eyes have been opened to

  this to-night, and the Lord has given me strength to

  confess my sin and glorify His holy name."

  The broken tones ceased, and David Bell sat down,

  wiping the great drops of perspiration from his brow.

  To a man of his training, and cast of thought, no

  ordeal could be more terrible than that through which

  he had just passed. But underneath the turmoil of his

  emotion he felt a great calm and peace, threaded with

  the exultation of a hard-won spiritual victory.

  Over the church was a solemn hush. The evangelist's

  "amen" was not spoken with his usual unctuous fervor,

  but very gently and reverently. In spite of his coarse

  fiber, he could appreciate the nobility behind such a

  confession as this, and the deeps of stern suffering it

  sounded.

  Before the last prayer the pastor paused and looked

  around.

  "Is there yet one," he asked gently, "who wishes to be

  especially remembered in our concluding prayer?"

  For a moment nobody moved. Then Mollie Bell stood up in

  the choir seat, and, down by the stove, Eben, his

  flushed, boyish face held high, rose sturdily to his

  feet in the midst of his companions.

  "Thank God," whispered Mary Bell.

  "Amen," said her husband huskily.

  "Let us pray," said Mr. Bentley

  Chapter XIV

  Only A Common Fellow

  ON my dearie
's wedding morning I wakened early and went

  to her room. Long and long ago she had made me promise

  that I would be the one to wake her on the morning of

  her wedding day.

  "You were the first to take me in your arms when I came

  into the world, Aunt Rachel," she had said, "and I want

  you to be the first to greet me on that wonderful day."

  But that was long ago, and now my heart foreboded that

  there would be no need of wakening her. And there was

  not. She was lying there awake, very quiet, with her

  hand under her cheek, and her big blue eyes fixed on

  the window, through which a pale, dull light was

  creeping in - a joyless light it was, and enough to

  make a body shiver. I felt more like weeping than

  rejoicing, and my heart took to aching when I saw her

  there so white and patient, more like a girl who was

  waiting for a winding-sheet than for a bridal veil. But

  she smiled brave-like, when I sat down on her bed and

  took her hand.

  "You look as if you haven't slept all night, dearie," I

  said.

  "I didn't - not a great deal," she answered me. "But

  the night didn't seem long; no, it seemed too short. I

  was thinking of a great many things. What time is it,

  Aunt Rachel?"

  "Five o'clock."

  "Then in six hours more - "

  She suddenly sat up in her bed, her great, thick rope

  of brown hair falling over her white shoulders, and

  flung her arms about me, and burst into tears on my old

  breast. I petted and soothed her, and said not a word;

  and, after a while, she stopped crying; but she still

  sat with her head so that I couldn't see her face.

  "We didn't think it would be like this once, did we,

  Aunt Rachel?" she said, very softly.

  "It shouldn't be like this, now," I said. I had to say

  it. I never could hide the thought of that marriage,

  and I couldn't pretend to. It was all her stepmother's

  doings - right well I knew that. My dearie would never

  have taken Mark Foster else.

  "Don't let us talk of that," she said, soft and

  beseeching, just the same way she used to speak when

  she was a baby-child and wanted to coax me into

  something. "Let us talk about the old days - and him."

  "I don't see much use in talking of him, when you're

  going to marry Mark Foster to-day," I said.

  But she put her hand on my mouth.

  "It's for the last time, Aunt Rachel. After to-day I

  can never talk of him, or even think of him. It's four

  years since he went away. Do you remember how he

  looked, Aunt Rachel?"

  "I mind well enough, I reckon," I said, kind of curt-

  like. And I did. Owen Blair hadn't a face a body could

  forget - that long face of his with its clean color and

  its eyes made to look love into a woman's. When I

  thought of Mark Foster's sallow skin and lank jaws I

  felt sick-like. Not that Mark was ugly - he was just a

  common-looking fellow.

  "He was so handsome, wasn't he, Aunt Rachel?" my dearie

  went on, in that patient voice of hers. "So tall and

  strong and handsome. I wish we hadn't parted in anger.

  It was so foolish of us to quarrel. But it would have

  been all right if he had lived to come back. I know it

  would have been all right. I know he didn't carry any

  bitterness against me to his death. I thought once,

  Aunt Rachel, that I would go through life true to him,

  and then, over on the other side, I'd meet him just as

  before, all his and his only. But it isn't to be."

  "Thanks to your stepma's wheedling and Mark Foster's

  scheming," said I.

  "No, Mark didn't scheme," she said patiently. "Don't be

  unjust to Mark, Aunt Rachel. He has been very good and

  kind."

  "He's as stupid as an owlet and as stubborn as

  Solomon's mule," I said, for I would say it. "He's just

  a common fellow, and yet he thinks he's good enough for

  my beauty."

  "Don't talk about Mark," she pleaded again. "I mean to

  be a good, faithful wife to him. But I'm my own woman

  yet - yet - for just a few more sweet hours, and I want

  to give them to him. The last hours of my maidenhood -

  they must belong to him."

  So she talked of him, me sitting there and holding her,