me in those days; and, when I
had exhausted my little stock, rather than read nothing I read my
sermon--read it so often that I think I can remember every word of it
now. 'My dear little boy, the Christian religion, as Christ taught it,
has long ceased to be the religion of the Christian world. A selfish and
cruel Pretence is set up in its place. Your own father is one example
of the truth of this saying of mine. He has fulfilled the first and
foremost duty of a true Christian--the duty of forgiving an injury. For
this, he stands disgraced in the estimation of all his friends: they
have renounced and abandoned him. He forgives them, and seeks peace and
good company in the New World, among Christians like himself. You will
not repent leaving home with him; you will be one of a loving family,
and, when you are old enough, you will be free to decide for yourself
what your future life shall be.' That was all I knew about the
Socialists, when we reached Tadmor after our long journey."

Mr. Hethcote's prejudices made their appearance again. "A barren sort of
place," he said, "judging by the name."

"Barren? What can you be thinking of? A prettier place I never saw, and
never expect to see again. A clear winding river, running into a little
blue lake. A broad hill-side, all laid out in flower-gardens, and
shaded by splendid trees. On the top of the hill, the buildings of the
Community, some of brick and some of wood, so covered with creepers and
so encircled with verandahs that I can't tell you to this day what style
of architecture they were built in. More trees behind the houses--and,
on the other side of the hill, cornfields, nothing but cornfields
rolling away and away in great yellow plains, till they reached the
golden sky and the setting sun, and were seen no more. That was our
first view of Tadmor, when the stage-coach dropped us at the town."

Mr. Hethcote still held out. "And what about the people who live in this
earthly Paradise?" he asked. "Male and female saints--eh?"

"Oh dear no, sir! The very opposite of saints. They eat and drink like
their neighbours. They never think of wearing dirty horsehair when they
can get clean linen. And when they are tempted to misconduct themselves,
they find a better way out of it than knotting a cord and thrashing
their own backs. Saints! They all ran out together to bid us welcome
like a lot of school-children; the first thing they did was to kiss us,
and the next thing was