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: "Are you going to love this young man--Chester Lawrence?" "Father," she cried, "what do you mean?" "Just what I say. I am not blind. I made him promise not to seek your company or talk religion to you. Tomorrow I shall relieve him from that promise." "O, father!" "There now, child,--and Lucy, he may talk of religion and love all he wants. I think those two things, when they are of the right kind and properly blended, are good for the heart, don't you?" "Yes, thank you, dear daddy--we are so near England now that I may call you daddy." "Then good-night, my girl;" and he kissed her again in the doorway. CHAPTER VII. But next morning there was no time to talk of either love or religion for Chester and Lucy.