"In what way?"
"I don't know, ma'am;—it excited the people very much. They could not keep still."
"Do you like preaching better that does not excite people?"
Eleanor hesitated. "No, ma'am; but I do not like them to make a noise."
"What sort of a noise?"
Eleanor paused again, and to her astonishment found her own lip quivering and her eyes watering as she answered,—"It was a noise of weeping and of shouting—not loud shouting; but that is what it was."
"I have often known such effects under faithful presenting of the truth," said Mrs. Caxton composedly. "When people's feelings are much moved, it is very natural to give them expression."
"For uncultivated people, particularly."
"I don't know about the cultivation," said Mrs. Caxton. "Robert Hall's sermons used to leave two thirds of his hearers on their feet. I have seen a man in middle life, a judge in the courts, one of the heads of the community in which he lived, so excited that he could not undo the fastenings of his pew door; and he put his foot on the seat and sprang over into the aisle."
"Do you like such things, aunt Caxton?"