"What would you think of a captain of a vessel not knowing nor caring to know from what port he sailed or what port was his destination? Who did not know the object of the voyage, knew nothing of how to meet the storms, the fog, the darkness of the sea?"

"Well, I'm not the captain of a ship."

"Yes, you are. You are the captain of your own soul, at least; and you may not know how many more souls are depending upon you for guidance in this voyage of life which we are all taking."

"That's right--true," agreed a number of by-standers.

"Say, mister," suggested one, "tell us what you think of the propositions. You seem able to, all right."

"Well," responded the elder, "I don't want to preach a sermon that will bore you; but if the ladies and gentlemen here are interested I shall be pleased to give my views."

"Sure--go on," came from others.

One or two found seats, as if they would rather sit through the ordeal, others following their example. "Yes; it's more comfortable," agreed Elder Malby, as they drew their chairs in a circle. Two people left, but two others came and took their places.

"I hope we are all Christians," began the speaker, "at least so far that we believe the Scriptures; otherwise my arguments will not appeal to you."

A number acknowledged themselves to be Christians.

"Then I may begin by saying that the purpose of this life-voyage of ours is that we might obtain the life eternal. 'This is life eternal' that we might know God and His Son Jesus Christ who was sent to us. If we know the Son we know the Father, for we are told that the Father has revealed Himself through the Son. This Son we know as Jesus Christ who was born into the world as we were. He had a body of flesh. He was like us, His brethren; yet this Being, the Scriptures tell us, was in the 'form of God;' that He was the 'image of the invisible God;' that He was 'in the express image of His Father's person.' When Jesus lived on the earth, one of His disciples asked Him, 'Show us the Father.' 'He that hath seen me, hath seen the Father,' was the reply. 'I am the way, the truth, and the life; no man cometh to the Father but by me.'"

At this point the Rev. Mr. Strong and his daughter came sauntering along the deck. They paused to listen, then accepted the chairs which Chester hurriedly found for them.

"I am not stating where in the Scriptures these quotations can be found," continued the elder, "though I shall be pleased to do so to any who wish to know. Well then, here we have a glorious truth: if we wish to know God, we are to study the Son. Jesus is the great Example, the Revealer of the Father. He is the Father's representative in form and in action. If Jesus, the Son, is meek and lowly, so also is the Father; if He is wise and good and forgiving, so is the Father; if the Son is long-suffering and slow to anger, yet not afraid to denounce sin and call to account the wicked, so likewise may we represent the Father. All the noble attributes which we find in the Son exist in perfectness in the Father.

"Picture this noble Son, the risen Redeemer, my friends, after His battle with death and His victory over the grave! In the splendid glory of His divine manhood, all power both in heaven and earth in His hand, He stands as _the_ shining figure of the ages. Why? Because He is 'God With Us.'"

There was perfect stillness in the group of listeners.

"Thus the Father has shown Himself to us. There is no need for any of us to plead ignorance of our Divine Parent. The way is marked out, the path, though at times difficult, is plain. The Son does the will of the Father. 'My Father worketh hitherto, and I work,' said Jesus. '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.' We, then, are to follow Christ, as He follows the Father. Isn't that plain?"

"Do I understand," asked one, "that you believe God to be in the form of man?"

"Rather that man is in the form of God, for 'God created man in His own image.'"

"In His moral image only. God is a spirit. He is everywhere present, and therefore cannot have a body, such as you claim," objected one.

"I claim nothing, my friend. I am only telling you what the Scriptures teach. They say nothing about a 'moral image.' What is a moral image?

Can it have an existence outside and apart from a personality of form?"

There was no immediate response to this. Some looked at the minister as if he ought to speak, but that person remained silent.

"The attributes of God, as far as we know them, are easily put into words; but try to think of goodness and mercy and love and long-suffering and wisdom outside and apart from a conscious personality, an individual, if you please. Try it."

Some appeared to be trying.

"Pagan philosophers have largely taken from the world our true conception of God, and given to us one 'without body, parts, or passions.' The Father has been robbed of His glorious personality in the minds of men. Christ also has been spiritualized into an unthinkable nothingness. And so, to be consistent some have concluded that man also is non-existent; and it naturally follows that God and Christ and man, with the whole material universe, are relegated to the emptyness of a dream."

"If God is in the form of man He cannot be everywhere," suggested one of the ladies. "And that's not a pleasant thought."

"Our friend here," continued the speaker, nodding to Mr. Strong, "quoted a passage in his splendid sermon last Sunday which explains how God may be and is present in all His creations. Certainly God the Father cannot personally be in two places at the same time any more than God the Son could or can." The elder took a Bible from his pocket.

"I had better read the passage. It is found in the 139th Psalm. David exclaims, 'Whither shall I go from thy _spirit_, or whither shall I flee from thy presence?' You will recall the rest of the passage. Is it not plain that the Lord is present by His Spirit always and everywhere. His Spirit sustains and controls and blesses all things throughout the immensity of space. Fear not, my friend, that that Spirit cannot be with you and bless you on sea or on land. We cannot get outside its working power any more than we can escape the Spirit of Christ now and here, even if His glorified body of flesh and bones now sits on the right hand of His Father in heaven where Stephen saw it."

As is usual in all such discussions as this, some soon retire, others linger, eager not to miss a word. Lucy, you may be sure, was among those who remained. Her father also, sitting near to Chester, listened with deep interest.

"Just one more thought," continued the "Mormon" elder, "in regard to this lady's fear that God may not be able to take care of all His children always and everywhere. God is essentially a Father--our Father.

The fathering of God gives me great comfort. By fathering I mean that He has not only brought us into existence, but He has sent us forth, provides for us, watches over us. In our darkness He gives us light, in our weakness He lends us strength. He rebukes our wrong actions, and chastens us for our good. In fact, He fathers us to the end. Is it not a great comfort?"

"It certainly is," said Lucy, unconscious to all else but the spirit of the Elder's words.

"In this world," said the Elder, "the God-given power of creation is exercised unthoughtfully, unwisely, and often wickedly. A good-for-nothing scamp may become a father in name; but he who attains to that holy title in fact, must do as God does,--must love, cherish, sustain and make sacrifices for his child until his offspring becomes old enough and strong enough to stand for himself,--Don't you think so, Mr. Strong?"

All eyes were turned to the minister who was appealed to so directly.

Had the reverend gentleman been listening, or had his thoughts been with his eyes, out to sea? His face was a study. But that was not to be wondered at. Was he not a dispenser of the Word himself, and had he not been listening to strange doctrine? However, he soon shifted his gaze from the horizon to his questioner.

"Certainly, I agree with you," he replied. "Father and fathering are distinct things. Happy the man who combines them in his life--happy, indeed."

The afternoon was growing to a close. The sun sank into the western sea.

The Elder, carried along by the awakened missionary spirit, continued his talk. He explained that the Father had by means of the Son pointed out the way of life, called the plan of salvation, or gospel of Jesus Christ. He spoke of faith, repentance, and baptism for the remission of sins; for, said the Elder to himself, even the minister has need of these things.

Lucy drank eagerly the words of life. Her father sat unmoved, making no comment or objection. He had never been one to wrangle over religion; had prided himself, in fact, on being liberal and broad-minded; so he would not dispute even though he could not altogether agree. The Elder's words came to him in a strange way. Had he heard all this before? If so, it had been in some long-forgotten past; and this man's discourse only awakened a faint remembrance as of a distant bell tolling across the hills. Away back in his youth, he must have heard something like this; or was it an echo of some pre-existent world--he had heard of such things before. Perhaps it was the man's tone of voice, his mannerism that recalled, in some way, some past impression.

The Elder stopped. Lucy touched her father's arm.

"Father," she said, "I believe you are cold. I had better get your coat."

The minister arose, as if stiffened in the joints by long sitting. He reached out his hand to the Elder. "I have enjoyed your gospel talk," he said. "May I ask your name, and to what Church you belong, for evidently you are a preacher."

"My name is George Malby, and I am an elder of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, commonly known as 'Mormons.'"

"A 'Mormon!'" a number of voices chorused.

Some confusion followed, and the party broke up. Lucy, her father, and Chester, still lingered.

"Father," said Lucy, "I had intended to introduce you to Elder Malby, but I wanted you to hear, unprejudiced, what he had to say. What he has been teaching is 'Mormonism,' and you'll admit now that it is not at all bad. You never would listen nor read."

"Lucy--that will do. Good evening, gentlemen. Come Lucy."

Later that same evening when most of the passengers had retired, the Rev. Mr. Strong came up on deck again. He took off his cap so that the breeze might blow unhindered through the thin, gray locks. He paced slowly the length of the promenade deck with hands behind his back and eyes alternatingly looking into the dark sky and to the deck at his feet. The old man's usual erect form was bent a little as he walked, his step broke occasionally from the rhythmatical tread. There was war in the minister's soul. Conflicting emotions fought desperately for ascendency. Memories of the past mingled with the scenes of the present, and these became confused with the future. As a minister of the gospel for half a lifetime, he had never had quite such a wildly disordered mind. He wiped the perspiration from his brow. He groaned in spirit so that moans escaped from his lips. The sea was beautifully still, but rather would he have had it as wild and as boisterous as that which was within his heart.

The man paused now and then at the rail. The Irish coast was not far away, and the lights of ships could be seen, westward bound. The minister tried to follow in his mind these little floating worlds; but they were too slow. Like the lightning he crossed the Atlantic and then with the same speed flew half way across the American continent to a big, black, busy city roaring with the traffic of men. Then out a few miles to the college, where he as a young divinity student had spent some years of his early manhood--and there and then he had met her--Also, years later, the woman whom he had married--and at each big milestone in his journey of life there had been "Mormons" and "Mormonism."

"'Mormonism,' 'Mormonism,'" the man whispered hoarsely.

"Anna--Clara--Lucy--Chester--and now--and now what! O, my God!"

It was nearly midnight when Lucy, becoming alarmed at her father's long absence from his state room, came slowly on deck, stopping now and then to rest. She saw him by the rail, went up to him, took him by the arm and with a few coaxing words led him down into his room. As he kissed her good-night with uncommon fervor, he looked into her upturned face and said: