those days!); and there came a time when it took offence at one
particular man in its membership on account of the liberality of
his religious opinions. This settler, an old Indian fighter whose
vast estate lay about halfway between the church and the nearest
village, had built himself a good brick house in the Virginian
style; and it was his pleasure and his custom to ask travelling
preachers to rest under his roof as they rode hither and thither
throughout the wilderness--Zion's weather-beaten, solitary scouts.

While giving entertainment to man and beast, if a Sunday came
round, he would further invite his guest, no matter what kind of
faith the vessel held, if it only held any faith, to ride with him
through the woods and preach to his brethren. This was the front of
his offending. For since he seemed brother to men of every creed,
they charged that he was no longer of THEIR faith (the only true
one). They considered his case, and notified him that it was their
duty under God to expel him.

After the sermon one Sunday morning of summer the scene took place.
They had asked what he had to say, and silence had followed. Not
far from the church doors the bright Elkhorn (now nearly dry) swept
past in its stately shimmering flood. The rush of the water over
the stopped mill-wheel, that earliest woodland music of
civilization, sounded loud amid the suspense and the stillness.

He rose slowly from his seat on the bench in front of the pulpit--
for he was a deacon--and turned squarely at them; speechless just
then, for he was choking with rage.

"My brethren," he said at length slowly, for he would not speak