Lucy's father tapped her on the shoulder. "You're in a church. Behave yourself," he said. "Come, let's be going."

CHAPTER XII.

It was evident that, notwithstanding the good intentions which all persons concerned had of not overreaching in the sight-seeing business, Lucy, at least, was feeling its effects. That she would have to remain quiet for some days was the verdict of the physician which her father called. There was no immediate danger, said he to Chester, but the heart action was feeble. A week of absolute rest would remedy that.

Chester was packed off to Switzerland alone, contrary to the program he had looked forward to. Uncle Gilbert did not care to go. Mr. Strong would have to remain with Lucy, so if Chester was to see Switzerland, he would have to try it alone. When Chester heard of the arrangement, he demurred; but when Lucy's father suggested to him that perhaps it would be best for her, he said no more.

After Chester's departure, the three settled down to the business at hand, that of resting. That was easy enough for Lucy and her father, but Uncle Gilbert was hale and hearty, so he continued to make short daily excursions to points of interest. They had pleasant quarters, not too near the noise of the city. The semi-private hotel had but few guests, so the back garden in which dinner was usually served, proved a desirable lounging-place.

Uncle Gilbert was away that afternoon. Lucy was resting in her room. The Rev. Mr. Strong paced nervously back and forth in the garden for a time, then dropped heavily into an easy chair. The French maid, stepping quietly about placed a pillow under his head, which kindness he accepted gratefully. The garden was still. There were no sharp near-noises, the city's activity coming merely as a faint distant hum.

The minister closed his eyes, but he did not go to sleep. His mind was too active for that, his nerves were tingling again. The bright, gay life about him did not exist for him. That afternoon he lived in the past. He marshalled for review contending thoughts, that had for many years fought for supremacy. Out of the chaos of conflict no order had yet come. He was getting old before his years justified it.

Why should he, a minister of the word of God, be so easily moved by strange religious ideas? Faintly as if from some distant, mostly forgotten past, there came to him this idea, that the truth, the whole, clean, simple truth as it exists in Christ Jesus had been told him, and he had rejected it. Why he had done this was not clear to him. He seemed to have lived in periods of alternating darkness and light. Then later, he had come in contact with so-called "Mormonism." Strange to say, its teachings had the same ring as that which he had heard before; but this time he rejected it because of its evil name. Once again, a little later, these same doctrines had come to him, but they were not welcomed when he learned that those who taught them and lived them were simple, ofttimes uneducated people, usually called the "scum" of the earth.

The Rev. Mr. Strong had actually given up his pastorship in two places, moving westward until he reached Kansas City.--Here for a number of years, he had experienced peace, a sort of indifferent peace, he admitted, due more to callousness of soul than to anything else. Then came Lucy's adventure with the "Mormon" elders on the streets, and her visit to "Mormon" meetings. She had brought "Mormon" literature home, and he had read it, read it all. He had asked her to bring more. He had often sat up till midnight to finish a book, then had railed at Lucy for bringing it into the house. And now the conflict was on again, harder than ever. He closed his eyes, saying, "No, no;" then opened them again to the beautiful light. He stopped his ears, crying, "I will not hear;"

then listened to the sweet music. With all the force of his life's training, he railed against the doctrine; then in silence contemplated its glorious truths. He drove the thought of it out of his mind; then welcomed it eagerly back. Back and forth, in and out, in doubt and fear, in faith and hope his soul had suffered and wrought.

What was the outcome to be? Evidently, the end was not yet; for had he not purposely taken this trip abroad, to get away from some of these things, and had he not run hard against that which he had hoped to escape. And in what form had it now come? In that of his son, his only son, the child of his younger days! Surely God was in this thing. "Yes,"

the man muttered, "God is watching me. I cannot escape. His hand is over me. '_If I take the wings of the morning and dwell in the uttermost parts of the sea; even there shall thy hand lead me, and thy right hand shall hold me!_'"

Uncle Gilbert came in, humming lightly a tune he had caught from the band in the cafe. He stopped when he saw his brother apparently asleep.

He was about to retreat when his brother, opening his eyes, called:

"Don't go; come here. I want to talk with you. I want your opinion on a matter."

Uncle Gilbert seated himself to listen.

"You might think it a strange thing for me to ask you about doctrines of religion," began the brother, "but sometimes a layman has a clearer, more unbiased view than one who has studied one system, and--and has made his living from preaching it."

"I fear, brother, you are worrying too much about such things"--

"Not at all--not too much. It's necessary to worry sometimes. I suppose that's God's way of arousing people. I am worrying--have been worrying for many years--just now I want someone to talk to--I want you to listen."

"I'll do that, if that will help you," said the brother as he placed his hat and stick on a table and shifted himself into a comfortable position. The maid peeped in, but seeing the two men, retired again.

"I have preached hundreds of sermons on the being and nature of God,"

said the minister, now sitting erect and looking at his brother. "I have spoken of Him as a Father, our Father, and all the time He has been out in time and space, formless, homeless, unthinkable. He has never appealed to heart or brain. Will God ever be more to me than a force in and through all nature? Shall we ever see His face? Shall we ever feel the cares of His hand and hear His voice, not in a figurative sense, but in reality."

"Now brother"--said Uncle Gilbert again.

"Don't interrupt. You do not need to answer my questions--you couldn't if you wanted to. Listen. What do you think of this: God is our Father, in reality as we naturally understand it--Father of our spirits. We are, therefore, His children. That is our relationship. Consequently we are of a family of Gods. Admit that our Father is God, and that we are His children, the conclusion is absolute. We are not worms of the dust, only so far as we degrade our divine nature to that lowness.

"This Father of ours has in the past eternities trod through time and space, learning,--yes, suffering, overcoming, conquering, becoming perfect, until now He sits in the midst of glory, power, and eternal lives. In might and majesty perfect, He can and does hold us all as in the hollow of His hand. This little earth of ours, and all the shining worlds on high are His workmanship. He holds them also by His allwise power. And yet, my brother, come back to this simple proposition, we are that great Being's sons and daughters, and if we walk in the way in which He walked, we are heirs to all that He has! I am one of a great family, so are you,--all of us. Our Father has but gone before and we follow. The difference between us is only in degree of development and not in kind.

"'O God, I think thy thoughts after Thee,' said Kepler, and thoughts lead to deeds.

"Again, the Son, whom we know as Jesus Christ, came to reveal to us this Father. He was in 'the form of God.' He was the 'image of the invisible God.' Further, this Son was in the express image of the Father's person.

Jesus Christ was a man like unto us as far as outward form is concerned.

He is one of this great family, the first-born and foremost of the children, it is true, yet one of us--He acknowledged us as His brethren.

Now, then listen: Jesus follows His Father. 'The Son can do nothing of Himself, but what He seeth the Father do: for what things soever He doeth, these also doeth the Son likewise.' Also, this Son said: 'My Father worketh hitherto, and I work.' Now, if we follow in the steps of the Son, as He has commanded us to do, and that Son follows in the steps of His Father, where is our final destination?"

The brother listened in wonder. The doctrine was, indeed, strange, but it was too clear and logical to be the result of a weak mind. The minister saw the perplexity in his listener's face and said:

"No, brother, I am not crazy. My mind has never been clearer. I feel fine now. I tell you, there is manna for a hungry soul in these things.

"And now again: This life is a school. From the puny, helpless infant to old age, life is a development of the attributes with which we come into the world. We get all our education through our senses. No faculty of mind or body is useless. The perfect man has these all perfectly developed. We have at least one example of a perfect man, the resurrected Son of God. What was He like? When He appeared to His disciples He said, 'Handle me and see; for a spirit hath not flesh and bones, as ye see me have.' He also ate with His brethren. Here, then, we have, one of us, carrying with Him into the celestial world His body of flesh and bone. And, mind you, He is the pattern. If we follow Him, we also shall take with us these bodies, changed, purged, and glorified of course, but yet bodies in every sense. Will not the eye then see perfectly, the ear hear every sound in the celestial key? Not only every attribute of the mind, but every organ of the body will be prefect in its operation. Think what that will mean!"

The speaker paused as if to let his listener arrive at the inevitable conclusion in his own mind.

"What will it mean?" he asked again.

"I don't know," replied Uncle Gilbert.

"It will mean fatherhood--eternal, celestialized fatherhood. We shall be like Him our Father, not only to beget, but to _father_ a race! Think of that! Did you ever think of that? No, of course not--and I--musn't--I who--have never yet made a beginning--how can I expect"--

The head fell back on the pillow as Uncle Gilbert quickly came to his brother's side. The minister's face was pale, his eyes were closed for a moment. Then he opened them, sat upright, ran his hand over his face, and smiled at his brother.

"Don't be alarmed," he said, "it was nothing. I'm all right."

He walked about while the maid came in and set the table for dinner. The minister linked his arm into his brother's. "Say, brother," he asked, "would you not be lonesome up in heaven without Aunt Sarah?"

Uncle Gilbert was seriously alarmed. He had in mind to call Lucy, when, providentially she came to them.

"I think your father's not well, Lucy?" said Uncle Gilbert, as she took her father's other arm.

"What's the matter, papa?" she asked.

"I am well," protested the father--"as well as I ever was. I've just been telling brother here some things--some gospel truths in fact, and I guess they're beyond you yet," he said to his brother.

"Well," replied Uncle Gilbert, "I'll admit I've never heard you talk like that before."

"Why, I've preached these things scores of times from the pulpit, and my congregations have thought them fine. I didn't tell, however, where my inspiration came from."

"Where did it come from?" asked Lucy.

"From your books, my dear."

"My books?"

"Yes; from your books on 'Mormonism'."

Had not dinner just then been announced, it is hard to say what would have become of Uncle Gilbert's astonishment. Across the table he saw Lucy's reassuring smile from which he himself took courage that all was well.