midnight carousals, warning men of the wrath of God, and urging them
to flee to Jesus for mercy.

The parishioners of Madeley grew decidedly uncomfortable. They desired
nothing so much as to be left alone, and the influence of this new
parson was a force with which they found it necessary to reckon. They
grew to dread the sudden opening of their tavern and dance-room doors,
and the appearance of the pale, pure-faced man, whose eyes glowed like
coals, and whose words burned and stung as he rebuked sin.

They were not used to being continually confronted with the claims of
God; they did not relish the urgency with which Fletcher insisted upon
_conversion_ rather than church-going. They turned upon him in
public; they maligned him in private; they disturbed his informal
meetings; they cursed his name. One thing they were bound to do,
however, they respected his courage and goodness, and that alone was
sufficient eventually to turn the tide.

It was a lonely time for Fletcher. He was a young man, with no
companion; he was of cultured mind, and greatly missed some kindred
intelligence and friendly spirit with which he might commune of the
things which pressed upon his soul. Little wonder that his heart
should turn towards the sweet-spirited woman whose face dwelt in his
memory with gentle persistence. He looked upon the idea of marriage,
however, as a snare to draw his thoughts from his work, and he fought
it down as something unworthy of his high calling.

"I am driven to the Lord," he wrote to the Countess of Huntingdon,
"and He comforts, encourages, and teaches me. The devil, my friends,
and my heart have pushed at me to make me fall into worldly cares and