“Ah, do not say that! It was worthy of Christ. It is worthy of them. They are not extinct. They are still preaching—on the savannas of the southwest—on all the border-lands of civilization—among the savages of the Pacific isles, and the barbarians of Asia and Africa; voices crying in the wilderness, ‘God so loved the world, that he gave his only begotten Son’ for its salvation. A Methodist preacher is necessarily an evangelist. Did you ever happen to read, or to hear Wesley’s ‘charge’ to his preachers?”
“No, I never heard it, Miss Fontaine.”
“If ta knows it, Phyllis, dearie, let him hev it. I’se warrant it’ll fit his office very well.”
“Yes, I know it; I have heard it many a time from my grandfather’s lips. In his old age, when he was addressing young preachers, he never said any thing else to them. ‘Observe,’ charged Wesley, ‘it is not your business to preach so many times, or to take care of this or that society, but to save as many souls as you can.’”
“Now, then, that’s enough. Phyllis, dearie, lift t’ candle and both o’ you come wi’ me; I’ve got summat to say mysen happen.”
He had that happy look on his face which people wear who are conscious of having the power to give a pleasant surprise. He led them to a large room above those in the east wing which were specially his own. It was a handsome bedroom, but evidently one that was rarely used.
“Look ‘ee here, now;” and he lifted the candle toward a picture over the fire place. “Who do you mak’ that out to be?”
“John Wesley,” said Phyllis.
“For sure; it’s John Wesley, and in this room he slept at intervals for thirty years. My great grandfather, Squire Gregory Hallam, was a Methodist—one o’ t’ first o’ them—and so you see, Phyllis, my lass, you hev come varry naturally by your way o’ thinking.”
The rector was examining the face with great interest. “It is a wonderful countenance,” he said; “take a look at it, Miss Fontaine, and see if it does not bear out what I accidentally said about La Trappe.”