the sham and
cant of some of the speeches, but in general there was much earnestness
and truth. When Priscilla rose in her turn and spoke, with downcast
eyes, he felt the beauty and simplicity of her religious life. And he
rightly judged that from the soil of a cult so severe there must grow
some noble and heroic lives. Last of all the class leader reached the
marquis, whom he did not know.

"Will our strange brother tell us how it is with him to-day?" he asked.

Priscilla trembled. What awful thing might happen when a class leader
invited a marquis, who could speak no English, and who was a disciple
of Saint Simon, to tell his religious experience, was more than she
could divine. If the world had come to an end in consequence of such a
concatenation, I think she would hardly have been surprised. But
nothing of the sort occurred. To her astonishment the marquis rose and
said:

"Is it that any one can speak French?"

A brother who was a member of one of the old Swiss families volunteered
his services as interpreter, and D'Entremont proceeded to tell them how
much he had been interested in the exercises; that it was the first
time he had ever been in such a meeting, and that he wished he had the
simple faith which they showed.

Then the old leader said, "Let us engage in prayer for our strange
brother."

And the marquis bowed his knees upon the hard floor.

He could not understand much that was said, but he knew that they were
praying for him; that this white-haired class leader, and the old
ladies in the corner, and Priscilla, were interceding with the Father
of all for him. He felt more confidence in the efficacy of their
prayers than he had ever had in all the intercessions of the saints of
which he was told when a boy. For surely God would hear such as
Priscilla!

It happened not long after this that D'Entremont was drawn even nearer
to this simple Methodist life, which had already made such an
impression on his imagination, by an incident which would make a
chapter if this story were intended for the New York Weekly Dexter.
Indeed, the story of his peril in a storm and freshet on Indian Creek,
and of his deliverance by the courage of Henry Stevens, is so well
suited to that periodical and others of its class, that I am almost
sorry that Mrs. Eden, or Cobb, Jr., is not the author of this story.
Either of them could make a chapter which would bear the title of "A
Thrilling Incident." But with an unconquerabl