At the end of twelve months or so there came to Princetown a preacher of extraordinary power. He was rough, he was uncultivated, he had not been educated for the pulpit, but he could stir the masses and wake up sleeping souls. He had a marvellous magnetism and tremendous earnestness, which silenced the scoffer and made the sinner tremble; the consequence was that sinners and scoffers went to hear him, and some few were made better by his denunciations. There are souls which can be reached only through fear. Happily there are more which can be reached through love.
Amongst those who were drawn to listen to the preacher was Basil, and being once present he did not miss a service. One Sabbath the preacher took sluggishness for his theme which he denounced, in its physical and moral attributes, as a sin, the consequences of which were not to be avoided. Men were sent into the world to work, to fulfil duties, and to seek both assiduously. It was not only sinful, it was cowardly, to put on the armour of indolence and indifference, and to so intrench oneself was destructive of the highest qualities of humanity, the exercise of which lifted men above the level of the beasts of the field. To say, because one is unfortunate, "Oh, what is the use of striving?" tends to rob life of nobility and heroism. To fight the battle manfully to the last, to keep one's heart open to humanising influences, however poor the return which proffered love and sympathy and charity may meet with, is the work of a man and brings its reward. He has striven, he has proved himself, he has established his claim to the higher life. To live only for the day, to be indifferent to the morrow, is a quality by which animals without reason are distinguished, and, to share with them in this respect is a cowardly and sinful degradation. "If" (said the preacher) "there are any here who have fallen so low, I say to them, Arouse yourselves; take down the shutters which darken heart and soul; admit the light which purifies and sweetens. Be men, not brutes."
This was the sum of his sermon. Few understood it, but they did not perhaps value it the less highly on that account. To Basil it came as a reproach; he quivered under the strokes and left the place of worship with a beating heart, with tumultuous thoughts in his mind. Scarcely noting whither he was going he walked towards the churchyard, and there in the distance, sitting by a grave, he saw a child. It was Edith sitting by the grave of her baby sister.
The scene, the attitude, brought Annette's form to his mind. So used she to sit by her mother's grave on the plantation, and he had accompanied her and sat by her side. He looked about for flowers; there were none near; but when he approached Edith he saw that she had some in her lap, and was weaving them into a garland, as Annette had done in a time really not so very long ago, but which seemed to belong to another life. She looked up at him, and the tenderness of her gaze touched him deeply; instantly on her countenance was reflected the sad wistfulness which dwelt on his. Children are peculiarly receptive; they meet your smiles with smiles, your sadness with sadness. Edith just shifted her little body, conveying in the slight movement an invitation to Basil to sit beside her. He instantly took his place close to her, and they fell naturally into conversation.
"What is your name, little one?"
"Edith. Tell me yours. I like you."
"My name is Basil."
"I like that, too. Here is a flower for you."
"Where did you gather them, Edith?"
"We have a garden. Father says it puts him in mind of home."