A gray-haired deacon now approached.—"On the hull," said he, "I liked your sarmon tolerable well, Brother Pendlam; but it warn't one o' your best; and if anybody else had preached it, I should have thought it contained a little dangerous doctrine."
Pendlam blushed. This compliment did not please him quite so well. But before he could shape a reply, quite an old woman seized his hand and kissed it.
"God bless you for those words! They have done my soul good, sir!"
Her gratitude and piety were quite affecting. Tears gushed into Pendlam's eyes. The deacon turned away with a smirk and an ominous shake of the head.
Horatio had found Susan. Pendlam took my arm, and we walked out of the church. The crowd pressed on before us; and as we reached the vestibule, we overheard suppressed voices the merits of the sermon.
"It was full of beautiful truth!" said a sweet young girl's voice.
"The most eloquent discourse I ever heard!" added a young man with a singing-book under his arm.
"For my part," remarked a portly and well-dressed pillar of the church, "I was a good deal surprised. Rather too wild and flowery. Must have a bad tendency."
"What we want is sound doctrine," observed another prosperous pillar.
"Better let such abstract subjects alone."
"Dangerous doctrine! dangerous doctrine!" chimed in the gray-haired deacon.