The Irish standard., 1891-03-14
CHAPTER I.
ONE SUNDAY.

AE swept over the
%-z,1 ehep land--even over
I#et- the quiet valley
~ of the Musl1in.
gum, with its sleepy agricultural vii
lagos and pleasant bo1nesteads. Even
the hamlet of Meltonburg-the last
place in the world where You would
have looked for excitement--was Oh
this holy day in unusual connection; and
the scene OF this mental disturbance
was, Of all other places, the village
church, d building whose wallis had
never, since the early settlers had first
hewed it's rafters from the virgin forest
trees, resounded to amy thing more stir"
ring than condemnation Of rural sin
ners or an Invocation to a 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 81 war~ser,non. 1t
was not that the people We're lost III as
constituent at the peaceful Old mans
I discoursing on such a subject, which
could hardly have seemed more odd to
them than If one 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
that cruel as war was: there was time
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 the
moment forgotten and Il little storm Of
applause greeted his glowing words.
For an instant the preachers eyes
rested ON the figure of a 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 q reproach
to himself; for while all the lads of the
neigh borhood had shouldered muslet
and gone to the front, he had remained
at home-not from any fear Of the
dangers of the battlefield. but because
the gentle woman, whose hand was 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 a 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, be would have been
solaced to know that they were only
moved with 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, insonuch that
the good man hesitated and stammered
under her appealing glance, and only
recovered himself with an effort for the
continuation of his address.
The sermon ended at last, and the e1-
cited congregation, after the manner Of
country folk, fingered awhile to ex-
change ideas-chiehy, 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, a pretty farmhouse, well out on
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 a quiet, retired
spot, well adapted to the studious hab-
its of its occupant, who was a far bet
terread man than his parishione,
any idea of. His household was small,
consisting simply Of his sister Ruth and
granddaughter Grace - the former al
lady OF uncertain years and temper;
whose periodical fits of irritability were
compensated for by splendid qualifca-l
tions as housekeeper and a strong at
lection for her brother, whom the neigh;
bors said she ruled with q rod of
iron - the latter sweet girl of
eighteen, whose radiant smile and
winning ways made sunshine in
the old mans house. She was the ac-
Ixnowledged village beauty trife
short in stature, perhaps, but with 9
form exquisitely nodded, expressive
eyes, which spoke with every glance,
healthy complexion that let the