recovering himself, now and again, as some striking sentence, or
scrap of rude philosophy, fell on his indifferent ear. Leaning
back in his chair, his eye rested on the hard features of the men
sitting on either side of the deacons' table. They were men of
grit, men of the hills, men whose religious ancestry was right
royal. Their fathers had fayed out well the foundations on which
the old chapel stood, and hewn the stones, and reared the walls,
and all for love--and after the close of hard days of toil. They
were men who knew nothing of moral half-lights--there were no
gradations in their sense of right and wrong. Sin was sin, and
righteousness was righteousness--the one night and the other day.
They drew a line, narrow and inflexible, and knew no debatable
zone where those who lingered were neither sinners nor saints. And
so with the doctrines they held. Severity characterized them.
Justice became cruelty, and faith superstition. They knew nothing
of progressive revelations. The old Sinaitic God still ruled; the
mountain was still terrible, and dark with the clouds of wrath.
Fatherhood in the Deity was an unknown attribute, and tenderness a
note never sounded in the creed they held. They had been bred on
meat, and they were strong men. They knew nothing of the tender
tones of Him whose feet became the throne of the outcast. Their
God was a consuming fire.

As Mr. Penrose looked into their faces, many bitter thoughts
poisoned the waters of his soul. He thought of Simon the Pharisee;
he thought, too, of St. Dominic; and of Calvin with the cry for
green wood, so that Servetus might slowly burn. He thought, too,
of the curse of spiritual pride--pride that enthroned men as
judges over the destiny of their fellows, and damned souls as
freely and as coolly as a commander marched his forlorn hope into