"I have understood," said he, "that you, Mr. Minot, think my sermon alluding to false doctrines, and also the one in which I spoke of preachers of heresy, were particularly directed to you, and that I believed you had done very wrong in leaving for one Sabbath your own church to hear a minister that preaches new and strange things." "I never have intimated as much, Mr. Davis. I did suppose you intended some of the remarks in your last sermon should apply directly to myself and family; but of the first one, I had only one idea. As I have before said to you, the thought of a burning hell always makes me shudder. I never could conceive of such torture at the hand of a wise and loving God. If there is punishment awaiting the unrighteous, it is not of literal fire. I am well persuaded of this, for if it were a literal fire, a body would soon be consumed; hence, the punishment could not be endless as supposed; while upon a spiritual body, it could have no effect. The fire in the stove burns my finger, but touches not my soul." "You know the tenets of our belief embrace both eternal comfort and eternal misery," said Mr. Davis; "it is what we are taught." "I know," said my father. "I have considered my church obligations seriously, and am prepared to say, if it is inconsistent for me, in the eyes of my preacher or of his people, that I, holding these thoughts, should remain in fellowship with them as before, I can only say I have grown strong enough now to stand alone, and I should think I ought to stand aside. I cannot see why we may not agree on all else." "I believe we do; I respect your opinions, Mr. Minot; we cannot afford to lose you either. May I ask with what denomination you would propose to unite?" "None at all," said my father, "unless the road comes clearer before me. I love our old meeting-house, Mr. Davis; my good old father played the violin there for years, and when a youth, I stood with him and played the bass viol, while my brother, now gone, added the clear tones of the clarionet, and the voice of my sweet sister Lucy could be heard above all else, in the grand old hymns 'Silver Street' and 'Mear.'" At these recollections my father's voice choked with emotion, and strange for him, tears fell so fast he could say no more. "Brother Minot," said Mr. Davis, rising to his feet and taking his hand, his eyes looking upward, "let the God who seeth in secret hold us still as brothers; keep your pew in the old church. This one difference of opinion can have no weight against either of us. This is all the church meeting we need or will have, and if I ever judge you falsely, may I _be_ thus judged." Aunt Hildy said: "Amen, Brother Davis, your good sense will lead you out of the ditch, that's certain." Clara's eyes were looking as if fixed on a far-off star. She was lost in gazing, the thin white lids covered her beautiful eyes for a moment or two, then she turned her pure face toward Mr. Davis, and said: