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“The actress! On Sunday!” said Pendlam, with a shocked expression. “But you might have heard me in the morning.”

“In the morning we rode together,” laughed Horatio.

I knew all this was a fiction on the part of my friend, designed to mystify the minister. I said nothing, to avoid an introduction; I had stepped aside, and now stood, amused and observant, under the street lamp. Pendlam especially I studied, with one eye (figuratively speaking) on him, and the other on Susan. I compared him with myself, and had no doubt but she was weak enough to consider him the handsomer man of the two. He was of medium height, slightly built, of a nervous temperament, with bright, quick-glancing eyes, and vehement gestures. The chief characteristic of the man seemed intensity. It manifested itself in his eager movements, in his emphasis and tones of voice, in his swiftly changing expression, in his wild hair, in his neckerchief, which seemed to have been tied with a jerk, and in his dress throughout, which was evidently that of a man who had things of vaster importance to think of.

He was whirling Horatio away in a torrent of eloquence, poured out against the sins of the age, and mainly against the theatre, which he denounced as the citadel of dissipation and all immoralities; and my poor friend, who had opened the gates of this flood by his indiscreet pleasantry, was vainly endeavouring to escape and rejoin me, when I observed a person come out of the saloon, and gradually draw near, until he stood within a few feet of the zealous reformer. A group watched him from the door. Before I suspected his object, he threw out the coils of a concealed whip, and springing upon Pendlam from behind, dealt him furious successive blows over the shoulders and head. I ran to the rescue. But already Horatio had seized the whip.

“Good for evil,” cried Pendlam, as I was on the point of throttling the assailant. “My friend, how have I injured you?”

“Interfering with my business! getting away my custom! insulting folks with your cursed tracts!” frothed the angry man. “I swore to cowhide you, and I’ve done it!”

“If that is the case, I have no complaint to make,” said Pendlam. “You can go on with your cowhiding.”

“You’ve had enough for once!” growled the other, rolling up the lash.

“But if I deserve whipping for doing my duty, I deserve a good deal more,” cried Pendlam. “And if you are to be my castigator for each offence, you will find yourself pretty well employed. It would be less trouble, I should think, to do a little more, while you have your hand in. Meanwhile, take this tract upon the sin of Anger, carry it home with you, and read it carefully at your leisure.”

Muttering threats, the man returned to the saloon, amid the laughs and acclamations of his constituents. Pendlam followed impulsively, and left the tract within. He then returned to us. Up to this time, he had appeared exalted and firm; but now there came a reaction; his voice forsook him, he trembled violently, and we were obliged to give him the support of our arms. As we conducted him away, his condition might have been taken for that of many others who get into difficulty in bar-rooms. Arrived at his boarding-house, he thanked us with pathetic earnestness, and urged us to go in.

“On one condition,” said Horatio,—“that you say no more about the theatres.”

Pendlam smiled faintly. “I should think I might refrain from that and kindred topics, at least until my shoulders have done smarting! But I assure you, my zeal will only be quickened by the occurrences of this night. The first horsewhipping is a great event. I now know what it is to be a martyr!”

We went in and conversed. My repugnance to forming a friendship with the man who was to marry Susan had vanished. I found him rather too zealous,—almost fanatical; but we forgive every thing in a man who shows generosity of heart, and sincere aspirations. Horatio took a paper from his pocket and read for the twentieth time a certain criticism upon Miss Kellerton’s acting; occasionally looking up, to listen to some remark from either Pendlam or myself,—then returning to his favorite article.

I had the honor of differing, on many essential points, with my new clerical acquaintance; and we were soon on excellent terms of courteous dispute. I assumed the philosopher, and expressed candidly my conviction that his intellect had early projected itself into doctrines which would prove too confined for its future growth. I remember distinctly his reply.

“On the contrary, it is you,” he said, “who, I perceive, will some day come over upon the very ground I now occupy. Our modern ways of thinking have become too free and lax. We cannot draw the rein and tighten the girth.”

There was a charming sparkle in his blue eyes as he spoke. I gave him my hand, and we parted. As we walked away together, Horatio asked how I liked him.

“He is in earnest, and that is everything. But mark me, he is not the man for Susan.”

“Your jealousy!” said Horatio.

“Not a bit! I see a discrepancy.”

“Where?”

“In my mind’s eye, Horatio.”

I concluded that silence was discretion, and refused to answer more questions. Horatio looked at his watch.

“We have just time to see Miss Kellerton in the last act of ‘The Stranger.’ She is great! You should see her, when she turns and embraces the children; it’s a scene of overwhelming pathos! Come!”

“With Pendlam’s printed sermon in your pocket?”

Horatio laughed. “We will read it during the dance!”

But I declined; and he went alone into the theatre.

Not long after, I received a certain wedding card, and, in consequence, made a certain call. Susan was all blushes and smiles at sight of me; but I was cool and circumspect.

“We are friends, are we not?” I said, “We once thought we were more than that; but we became older and wiser. We agreed to disagree, very properly. It did not break our hearts; and that shows that it is better as it is.”

“Perhaps,” murmured Susan.

“Let us be quite frank with each other; that is the best way, Susan. We are good friends?”

“O, yes!” said Susan.

“Thank you, dear Susan,—if I may still call you so, in the sense of friendship. I know your husband, and love him. I congratulate you on having so noble a companion.”

Susan sighed, and concealed a tear. Just then Pendlam entered. He seemed abstracted, and took a quick turn across the room; then gave me a surprised look, a pleased smile, and a cordial grasp of the hand. The next hour I was oblivious of all external things, in the delightful excitement of our conversation. I even forgot Susan. Poor Susan! the trouble was, she was not intellectual; not at all imaginative; but a very plain, matter-of-fact person, with deep affections, and paramount instincts. During that memorable hour, she spoke not one word. When at length I observed her consciously, she was gazing at us with a look of weariness and vacancy.

“Is it not so?” cried Pendlam.

He appealed to her. She smiled sweetly, and said with simplicity that she scarcely understood any thing that had been said.

I could see that Pendlam was a little shocked. From clear, joyous heights of poetic discourse, we looked down, and saw how far off below was her beingless mind. To the vision we then enjoyed, there was something thick and earthy in her expression. It was the first time Pendlam had observed it; I had seen it before. And even as before, I looked back, with wonder at myself, to the earlier period when I deemed her beauty peerless.

Both Pendlam and I were chilled. The fine tension of the spiritual chords relaxed, and gave forth heavier music. Susan failing to ascend to us, we came down to her. She now made haste to atone for her long silence by talking freely of the pretty new church, and the people she saw out Sunday; and she seemed proud and happy when she brought out her wedding gifts, and I praised them.

It was several weeks before I again saw Pendlam. I went with Horatio to hear him preach. The sermon surprised me. Many of the thoughts which I had advanced in our private conversations, and which he had opposed, were reproduced, but very slightly modified, in his discourse.

“Pendlam is enlarging,” whispered Horatio. “The very things you said to him the first time you met!”

I was gratified by the fact, and gratified that Horatio observed it; regarding it as evidence of Pendlam’s emancipation from his chains.

The services over, the young clergyman made his way to us through the crowd.

“I have so much wished to see you!” he exclaimed, grasping my hand. “You were a little astonished at my sermon.”

“And a good deal pleased,” I added.

Pendlam’s delicate and changing features colored finely.

“You think I have altered my views, I see by your smile. Not at all, except that I have gone farther.”

“I am glad you have gone farther,” I answered.

“But in the same direction, I assure you!” said Pendlam, quickly. “Step by step, step by step.”

“You were on your way back to Paul and the Fathers.”

“Yes; and on my arrival among them, I found myself one of the Fathers! It was a necessary experience. As Paul spoke by authority, so I, when I stand where Paul stood, also speak by authority. We must first be obedient, before we can be free. You see where I am,” said Pendlam.

Here a young woman came forward, and, with tears in her eyes, thanked her pastor for the glorious truths he had that day preached.

“They are not my truths; they are the Lord’s; I am but his mouthpiece,” answered Pendlam, well pleased.

A gray-haired deacon now approached.—“On the hull,” said he, “I liked your sarmon tolerable well, Brother Pendlam; but it warn’t one o’ your best; and if anybody else had preached it, I should have thought it contained a little dangerous doctrine.”

Pendlam blushed. This compliment did not please him quite so well. But before he could shape a reply, quite an old woman seized his hand and kissed it.

“God bless you for those words! They have done my soul good, sir!”

Her gratitude and piety were quite affecting. Tears gushed into Pendlam’s eyes. The deacon turned away with a smirk and an ominous shake of the head.

Horatio had found Susan. Pendlam took my arm, and we walked out of the church. The crowd pressed on before us; and as we reached the vestibule, we overheard suppressed voices the merits of the sermon.

“It was full of beautiful truth!” said a sweet young girl’s voice.

“The most eloquent discourse I ever heard!” added a young man with a singing-book under his arm.

“For my part,” remarked a portly and well-dressed pillar of the church, “I was a good deal surprised. Rather too wild and flowery. Must have a bad tendency.”

“What we want is sound doctrine,” observed another prosperous pillar. “Better let such abstract subjects alone.”

“Dangerous doctrine! dangerous doctrine!” chimed in the gray-haired deacon.

On reaching the open air, I observed that Pendlam was quite tremulous and flushed.

“You see,” he said with a smile, “what it is to be a minister.”

We went home to his house. Horatio had arrived before us, in company with Susan and her mother. The latter was looking very uncomfortable at seeing me, I thought, for she had hated me cordially since my affair with her daughter.

“I declare, John Henry,” she said, in her energetic way, “I hope you never will preach another such sermon as long as I