Their presence had a wider significance than I had supposed. Mr. L. said that the funeral services of his boy Judson had awakened a general wish for preaching; and hearing that I was not engaged, the settlers at L— were anxious that I should locate with them. "We want the gospel," he said, with Western frankness, "and we don't mean to 'steal' it either!" Then followed considerations tending to show that the speaker, and those he represented, were in earnest. Visits to L— convinced me that it was a promising field of effort, and I did not feel at liberty to "decline the call," though previously I had scarcely determined whether to remain West or not. Accepting the generous hospitality of Mr. L., I became an inmate of his household, until the arrival of my family from the east. The shadow of their great sorrow still rested on them, stimulating in me desire for their spiritual good. One member of the family, especially, excited interest. They called her aunt Flora. She was over sixty, stout and robust; her plain, almost repulsive countenance, wearing ever a sullen, imbittered expression. A more hopeless, forbidding face one rarely sees. She had also this peculiarity. She uniformly absented herself from our devotions, and if in the room when the hour of prayer arrived, would immediately leave till the exercises were over. I supposed, for a time, that some labor called her away, and wondered that domestic arrangements were not such as to permit her to remain. "I do not get acquainted with aunt Flora," I said to Mrs. L. one day. "No, I suppose not," she answered. "Is she a professor of religion?" "No, indeed she 'hates' religion," was the intense reply. "I do not think she has read a word in the Bible or attended church since she was a child. You have noticed she is never present at family prayers?" "Yes; I thought perhaps some duty made her absence necessary." "Oh, no, she will not stay. No one can induce her to; it has been often tried, but in vain." "What a pity! And she looks so unhappy. We must pray and labor for her; perhaps God will soften her heart, and lead her to peace." "You would not speak thus," was the decided rejoinder, "if you know aunt Flora's history. I have no hope that she will ever be a different woman. She has for years been the bitterest enemy to the Bible and to Christians that I ever saw." "But," I interposed, "how often were the vilest outcasts brought in under the Saviour's ministry!—the lowest, most abandoned, as well as the fiercest opposers. How the grace of Christ was magnified when he saved Zaccheus and Mary Magdalene; and met Saul of Tarsus, and made him a 'chosen vessel.'" "Well, you can try," she replied; "but you will be disappointed. If you knew aunt Flora as I do, you would not attempt it."