Then with great ardour he preached to her the doctrine of this new
Christian sect. He was a convert; his preaching was rather the eager
recital of his own experience, which would out, like some dynamic force
within him, than pressure brought wilfully to bear upon her.

He said, "I do not ask thee, friend, if thou art Methodist or Baptist or
Presbyterian, but I do ask thee, canst thou read the promises of thy
Lord to his church and be content with its present low estate?"

Susannah was habituated to some recognition of her beauty; she missed it
here, not knowing what she missed. Smith had known that it was important
for her to be sheltered from the wind; he was sorry that her skirts were
splashed; his manner, casual as it had been, had at least had in it that
element of "because you are you," the first essential of any human
relationship. But Susannah liked the young Quaker much better than
Smith; he was of finer fibre, and her heart was agape for young
companionship; so, unconsciously, she resented his indifference, not
only as to her sect but as to her sex.

"My father was an Englishman," she replied with dignity, not knowing why
this seemed sufficient answer.

The Quaker proceeded eagerly with his own story. He had searched the
Scriptures diligently, and found in them no warrant for believing that
the age of miracles and direct revelations would ever pass from the
church. Then upon the gloom of his deep despondency a star had arisen.
He had heard of a young man, poor, obscure, illiterate, who had dared to
come forth saying again, as St. Peter had once said, "This is that which
was spoken by the prophet Joel." He had come far to hear the word, and,
upon hearing it, he had found rest for himself and a hope for the world.