Waterbury evening Democrat., 1891-03-07
CHAPTER l.
oNH SUNDAY,


gum, with its sleepy agricultural viii
lagos and pleasant homesteads. Even
the hamlet of Interchangeable last
place in the world where you would
have looked for excitement-was on
this holy day in unusual commotion; and
the scene of this mental disturbance
was, Of all other places, the village
church, a building whose walls had
never, since the early settlers had first
hewed its rafters from the virgin forest
trees, resounded to any thing more stir
ring than condemnation of rural sim
ners or an invocation to godlier life.
The pulse of the place was throbbing
at fever speed, and the reason was that
Rev. Josiah Brentwood, the aged pas
tor, was preaching q war-sermon. 1t
was not that the people were lost in as
constituent at the peaceful old mans
discoursing on such a subject, which
could hardly have seemed more odd to
them than if onc of their own sheep
had suddenly turned to rend them, but
that the burning eloquence of one they
had loved, but had never suspected of
the power Of oratory, should stir them
to such enthusiasm was indeed matter
of wonder.
The congregation of petty merchants
and farmers, with their wives and
daughters, sat in their pews SPELL
bound, while with graphic simplicity he
told them the story of the civil war,
now in the fury of it's first passionate
outburst. His fervid description, his
unsurpassed spirit of patriotism thrilled
them with an emotion they had never
felt before. And when he told them
fhef Orttnl klar ,
when the most God-fearing Christian
must grid his loins for the fight and
leave the tender ties of home and
kindred to serve his fatherland, the
| sacred character of the spot was for tho
moment forgotten and little storm of
applause greeted his glowing words.
For an instant the preachers eyes
rested on the figure of q young man;
and he was panied to see the youths
handsome face flush scarlet and his
eyes droop before his glance in an
| agony of shame.
Poor Frank Besant! He had taken
| every word of the sermon as reproach
TO himself: for while all the lads of the
neighborhood had shouldered O muslxct
and gone to tho front, he had remained
at home-not from any fear of the
dangers of the battlefield, but because
the gentle woman, whose handwas now
nervously clasping his, was his widowed
mother, and he was her only child and
the idol of her heart.
Every word of the discourse had fall
len like drop Of molten lead in his
ears, tingling them with sense of unde-
served shame; yet, If he could have read
the thoughts of the few who really had
him in their minds, he would have been
solaced to know that they were only
moved with n great pity for the mother
they were assured was so soon to be
bereft; for none, who were intimate
with him, doubted what the end would
be.
She knew it, too.
AS she clasped her loved ones hand
she turned on the pastor eyes full OF
bitter remonstrance, insomuch that
the good man hesitated and stammerec
under her appealing glance, and only
recovered himself with an effort for the
continuation of his address.
The sermon ended at last, and the ex,
cited congregation, after the manner Of
country folk, fingered awhile to ex
change ideas-chiefly, in this instance
unreliable news from the seat of war
hurried fussily away to their homes.
Mr.. Brentwood did not occupy the
parsonage, but lived In his own home
stead, n pretty farmhouse, well out OF
the outskirt Of the village, near where
the river wound its way out Of the or
chards into the holder scenery of the
mountain lands. twas n quiet, retired
spot, well adapted to the studious hab
} its Of its occupant, who was n far bet
ter read man than his parishioners hal