ALTHOUGH the First Church prayer meeting had gone several steps onward, gotten beyond the region of distressing pauses, wherein the embarrassed people looked at each other and wished something would happen, it was by no means the free, social, enjoyable gathering that a prayer-meeting ought to be. A life-long education of too rigid propriety—in other words, false propriety—is not to be overcome in an hour. Therefore, after those who were more accustomed to occupying the time had filled their space there came a lull, not long, not distressing. Those Chautauqua girls were all present, and any one of them would have led in a hymn rather than let the pause stretch out. But it was long enough for people to wonder whether the hour was not almost gone, and whether there were any others who would get their lips open that evening; and then they heard a strange voice: clear, steady, well-managed, as one accustomed to the sound of her own voice, even in public places, and it belonged to the stranger sitting beside Judge Erskine—none other than his daughter Susan. The words she uttered were these: “Therefore being justified by faith, we have peace with God, through our Lord Jesus Christ.”

Now, if it is your fortune to be a regular attendant at a prayer-meeting where a woman’s voice is never heard, you can appreciate the fact that the mere recitation of a Bible verse, by a “sister” in the church, was a startling, almost a bewildering innovation. Only a few months before, I am not sure but some of the good people would have been utterly overwhelmed by such a proceeding. But they had received many shocks of late. The Spirit of God coming into their midst had swept away many of their former ideas, and therefore they bore this better.

But the voice went on, clear, steady, as well sustained as though it belonged to a deacon in the church. “I have been all day,” it said, “dwelling under the shadow of that verse, ‘Peace with God!’ It expresses so much! Peace is greater than joy, or comfort, or rest. I think the words come to perplexed lives with such power. When we do not see the way clearly; when we are beset with difficulties; when disappointments thicken around us, we can still look up to God and say, ‘Up there, where Father is, it is peace.’ He sees the way plainly and He will lead us right through the thickets to the sunlight of His eternal presence. I felt this verse specially one day. Something occurred in which I had to bear a prominent part. For a time I was perplexed—was not sure what was right—and, afterward, my friends thought that I did not make the right decision, and I felt afraid that perhaps I had not, and it troubled me. Then I rested my heart on this word: ‘justified.’ Not because I have done right; not because my judgment is correct; not because of any act of mine in any direction save that one of trusting in my Lord, justified by faith! I am so glad that however much we may disappoint and try our friends, and our own hearts, in the sight of the great and wise and pure God, we are justified through Jesus Christ.”

Simple words were these, simply and quietly spoken. The speaker had spent all her life in one place and all her Christian life in one church. In that church it had been her custom to give her word of testimony. Sometimes it was a verse of a hymn that she recited, sometimes it was a text of Scripture, sometimes it was a touch of her own experience. She had grown up with the custom. She did not realize that there were any who had not. It did not occur to her that to the ears of the First Church people this might be a strange sound. So there had been no flutter or embarrassment, no self-consciousness of any sort; simply out of the fullness of her heart she had spoken. The effect on those about her was obvious and various. Judge Erskine’s hand, that rested on the knob of his gold-headed cane, trembled visibly; Mrs. Senator Seymour, who sat behind him, looked indignant, and felt that Judge Erskine had had enough to endure before this, but this was really too much! Marion Wilbur, who was present, and who did wear her old brown dress, “sticking to it to the very last,” sat erect, with glowing cheeks and eyes that were bright with excitement. To fully understand her excitement I shall have to tell you about a little conversation she had just before starting for church.

“Marion,” Dr. Dennis had said, as he waited in the stuffy parlor for her to draw on her gloves, “I wish you were a very brave young woman, and liked innovations, and were willing to make a startling one to-night.”

“Which you believe I am not, and will not, I conclude,” she had replied, laughing; and stopping before him with a mock bow, added:

“Thank you; I believe you are correct about part of it, at least. I certainly feel very meek and quiet to-night, whatever I may have been in the past. What do you want done?”

“I want to get rid of a horrible stiffness that is creeping over our meeting. We have been thawed, but not sufficiently; that is—well, Marion, the prayer-meeting doesn’t and never did, meet my ideal. It is not social enough—friendly and familiar enough. I would like to have it a place where we meet together to talk over religious subjects, in exactly the same way that we talk of other matters of interest. I would like, for instance, to ask you as to your opinion of a passage of Scripture, or a hymn; and I should like you to answer as freely as you would if we were sitting with other friends in—say your parlor, for instance.”

The emphasis in this latter sentence brought a vivid blush to Marion’s face, and a little exclamation, not exactly of dismay:

“I think you are in a very startling mood. What would your good pillars in the church say to such innovations, do you suppose? It takes my breath away even to think of such a thing! I would almost as soon arise in the desk, and undertake to preach a sermon.”

“Which is a very different thing,” Dr. Dennis said, stoutly. “But, now, just look at it, Marion. Isn’t that the reasonable way to do? Imagine a party of us meeting to discuss a prospective journey to Europe, or to the Holy Land; and, supposing me to be the leader, imagine all the ladies sitting perfectly mum, and the gentlemen only speaking when I called them by name, as if, instead of a social meeting, where all the people were on the same level, it was a catechetical class, met for examination, with myself for examiner! I don’t believe we have the true idea of prayer-meetings.”

“Perhaps not. But, if I should suddenly say to you, when we are fairly seated in the chapel, ‘Dr. Dennis, what do you think is the meaning of the sentence—Called to be saints?’ what would you think?”

“I should be delighted—positively delighted; and I should proceed to answer you as well as I could; and should like to say, ‘Judge Erskine, isn’t that your idea?’ or, ‘Mrs. Chester, what do you think about it?’ and thus from one to another, freely, familiarly as we would if we were gathered to converse about anything else that was worthy of our attention. That is my idea of a social prayer-meeting.”

“Well,” said Marion, “I don’t believe you will ever realize your idea. For myself, I should just as soon think of attempting to fly. The minute you get seated behind that great walnut box, with those solemn-looking cushions towering before you, I feel as far removed from you as though miles of space divided us.”

“That is just it,” Dr. Dennis said, growing eager. “I tell you, this sense of distance and dignity, and unwise solemnity, are all wrong. The barriers ought to be broken down. How I wish, Marion, that you felt it in your heart to help me. I wish you would open your mouth in that meeting to-night. It would do you and me, and everybody good. We should have made a beginning toward getting nearer to the people. I don’t mean anything formidable, you know. Suppose you should just recite a verse of Scripture—something appropriate to the subject before us? I don’t believe you have an idea of the effect it would have.”

“Oh, yes I have,” Marion said, with an emphatic nod of her head. “I can realize that the effect would be tremendous. I don’t believe you have the slightest idea of it! What effect will it have, if you and I reach the meeting ten minutes past the time?”

Whereupon they went to church. Of course Marion was interested in Susan Erskine’s verse, and Susan Erskine’s comments; not so interested that she felt moved to join her, and contribute of her experience to that meeting—such things need thinking about and praying over—but so interested that her face flushed at the thought that this girl, who was from the country, had more moral courage than she, and was in sympathy with Dr. Dennis’ advanced ideas in regard to prayer-meetings.

As for Ruth Erskine, her head went down on the seat before her, and she kept it bowed during the remainder of the service.

Judge Burnham’s nerves were in turmoil. He could not remember that he had ever in his life before felt such sympathy for the trials of others. This particular form of the trial seemed dreadful to him. The idea that a girl of Ruth Erskine’s refinement, and a man of her father’s position, should be brought thus rudely and offensively before the public, jarred upon him, as he had not supposed that anything outside of himself and his own trials could. He blamed himself for being the unwitting cause of part of the trouble. If he had not suggested to Ruth the possibility of coming to this obnoxious place, she would have been spared this embarrassment. Filling his mind with these thoughts—to the exclusion of anything else that was said—and trying to determine how he should best express his sympathy to this tried girl by his side, he was presently relieved to discover that the people were rising for the benediction, and this—to him—long drawn out trial was over. He had not, however, sufficiently composed his thoughts to venture on any form of address, when Ruth suddenly broke the silence in which they were walking:

“Judge Burnham, I owe you thanks. Your suggestion about the prayer-meeting to-night, and your kind attendance upon me, have helped. That meeting came to my heart like balm. I cannot venture to attempt telling you what it has done for me. Perhaps it would be difficult to make you understand how heavy my heart was; but one sentence spoken there has been repeated to me as a revelation! I am so glad to feel that, for me, there can be peace with God! I have felt so storm-tossed, so bewildered, so anxious to do right, and so sure that I was doing wrong, it has been, at times, difficult for me to determine right from wrong, and, in some things, I have felt so condemned that I was miserable. Now I know what I need—God’s peace—such as only he can give—such as is not interfered with by any outward circumstances. To be justified before him is surely enough. I need not ask for further justification.”

Now, indeed, was Judge Burnham silent from very amazement. Here was this girl, to whom he thought had come an added and excessively embarrassing trial, thanking him for bringing her into it, and actually calling it a help and a joy! He had not the least conception of what she could mean. A strong desire to make her explain herself, if she could, prompted his words:

“Then you were not disturbed with your—with the lady’s prominence this evening?”

“With my sister’s, Judge Burnham. You were right in the first place.”

Whether Ruth was willing to accept the situation for herself or not, she could dignifiedly insist upon others doing it. Whoever her father introduced as his daughter should be received by outsiders as her sister, whether she so received her or not.

“I beg pardon,” said Judge Burnham. “You were not disturbed, then, by the position which your sister took?”

“I didn’t think anything about position. She recited that Bible verse most exquisitely, I thought, and the words which she spoke afterward were strong and helpful; they helped me, and I am glad in my very soul that I heard them. That is the most that I can tell you about it.”

Silence seemed to be the wisest course for Judge Burnham. He was thrown out of his bearings. Since she did not need comfort, and refused to receive, why should he attempt to give it? But he didn’t in the least understand her. He wondered curiously whether his sympathy had been equally thrown away on his friend, Judge Erskine, or whether he, with his refined and sensitive tastes, had really received a blow from which it would be hard to rally. The more he thought about it the more probable this seemed. As he thought he waxed indignant.

“If I were he I would forbid her appearance in public, until she learns what is due to her position. It isn’t likely that he can rise to the fanatical heights where his daughter has managed to climb. Probably she will have made a descent by to-morrow morning. I mean to go in and see the Judge.”

Acting upon this mental conclusion, he ascended the Erskine steps, and followed Ruth without waiting for a formal invitation. Her father had just entered, and was still in the hall. He turned toward his friend.

“Come in, Burnham. I was very glad to see you where I did to-night. I hope it will not be the last time. I am sure you must have enjoyed the meeting. Come to the library and let us talk it over.” And Judge Erskine threw open the library door, while the others of his family turned toward the parlor.

“Well,” he said, as the door closed after them, “what did you think of the meeting?”

“I confess to being considerably surprised,” Judge Burnham answered. Truth to tell, he hadn’t the least idea what it would be wise to say.

“Weren’t you!” said Judge Erskine, with energy. “I never was more so. I didn’t know she was of that stamp; and yet I might have known it. She has given me several glimpses of her spirit during the little time in which I have known anything about her.”

“What are you going to do?”

“Do? How? I am not sure that I understand the question.”

“Why, I mean as to the position which she assumed to-night.”

“Oh, as to that, there is nothing to do. I dare say I may express the gratitude which I feel for the help that she gave me, but I don’t even know whether I can bring myself to do that. I can’t get over the sense of strangeness and embarrassment. But weren’t those grand words that she quoted to-night? I declare such a truth as that ought to take us through anything! It lifts me out of myself for the time-being and I feel as though I could live my life patiently and earnestly. I’ll tell you, Judge, what I thought as I sat in that seat to-night and looked over at you. I wished with all my soul that you might be induced to look into this matter for yourself, and see the reasonableness of it all. Did you ever give it special attention, my friend? In fact, I know you didn’t, because a man of your discernment could have come to but one conclusion, had you thought closely about it.”

“That is a compliment to my discernment, and I appreciate it,” Judge Burnham said, with a faint attempt at a smile. “I am not sure that I ever gave the subject what you call ‘special attention.’ And yet I think I have a reasonable degree of respect for religion and the Bible. You have often heard me express my opinion of the literary merits of that book, I think.”

“Oh, yes,” said Judge Erskine, with a little sigh. “‘Literary merits!’ Yes, I know you respect the Bible and admire it, and all that sort of thing; but that is very different from living by it. I respected it myself for forty years. The thing is to stand ‘justified’ in God’s sight. Think of that! People like you and me, who have made mistakes all our lives—mistakes that seem past all rectifying—and yet, in God’s sight, they are as if they had not been, through the atoning blood! Isn’t that a glorious thought?”

“Mistakes are not sins, Judge,” his friend added, and he spoke the words somewhat haughtily. In his heart he added: “They are a couple of fanatics, he and his daughter. I don’t understand either of them.” In truth, he was staggered. It might do to attribute fanaticism, or undue exaltation of mood, to Miss Erskine, possibly; but he had known the cool-headed Judge long and well. Was it likely that anything which would not bear close and logical looking into could get possession of him to a degree that it had—even to a degree that was transforming his life?