THE GATES OF THE WORLD

Stillness in the Meeting-house, save for the light swish of one
graveyard-tree against the window-pane, and the slow breathing of the
Quaker folk who filled every corner. On the long bench at the upper
end of the room the Elders sat motionless, their hands on their knees,
wearing their hats; the women in their poke-bonnets kept their gaze upon
their laps. The heads of all save three were averted, and they were
Luke Claridge, his only living daughter, called Faith, and his dead
daughter's son David, who kept his eyes fixed on the window where the
twig flicked against the pane. The eyes of Faith, who sat on a bench at
one side, travelled from David to her father constantly; and if, once or
twice, the plain rebuke of Luke Claridge's look compelled her eyes
upon her folded hands, still she was watchful and waiting, and seemed
demurely to defy the convention of unblinking silence. As time went on,
others of her sex stole glances at Mercy's son from the depths of their
bonnets; and at last, after over an hour, they and all were drawn to
look steadily at the young man upon whose business this Meeting of
Discipline had been called. The air grew warmer and warmer, but no one
became restless; all seemed as cool of face and body as the grey gowns
and coats with grey steel buttons which they wore.

At last a shrill voice broke the stillness. Raising his head, one of the
Elders said: "Thee will stand up, friend." He looked at David.

With a slight gesture of relief the young man stood up. He was good
to look at-clean-shaven, broad of brow, fine of figure, composed of
carriage, though it was not the composure of the people by whom he was
surrounded. They were dignified, he was graceful; they were consistently
slow of movement, but at times his quick gestures showed that he had
not been able to train his spirit to that passiveness by which he
lived surrounded. Their eyes were slow and quiet, more meditative than
observant; his were changeful in expression, now abstracted, now dark
and shining as though some inner fire was burning. The head, too, had
a habit of coming up quickly with an almost wilful gesture, and with an
air which, in others, might have been called pride.

"What is thy name?" said another owl-like Elder to him.

A gentle, half-amused smile flickered at the young man's lips for an
instant, then, "David Claridge--still," he answered.

His last word stirred the meeting. A sort of ruffle went