Meantime the meeting went on in its services, and they sang, prayed and exhorted in turn. It was not what is technically called a "good" meeting. Few seemed to enjoy the privilege of prayer, or to possess the gift of exhortation. The very singing was tame and lifeless. There seemed to be some spell of heaviness cast over all. At last, toward the close of the evening, an aged brother arose, and began in a strain of such wild eloquence, as deep, earnest, fervid emotions confer upon untutored minds, to exhort his brethren and sisters of the church upon the subject of their apathy and lukewarmness. I can do no justice to that wild, eyrie style of oratory. It impressed, affected and strongly excited his hearers. He concluded with _outre_ expressions and gesticulations: "And why, my brethren, is this freezing spell of spiritual cold cast over us? Why can we not pray, or exhort, or sing, or take sweet counsel together? Why can we not love, or fear, or feel? Why will not the Spirit of God come down to us? Why will not the Lord inspire and accept our prayers? Is it because there is 'some accursed thing hidden' among us? Is there an Achan in our camp? I charge you, brother, sister, whoever you be, repent! speak! cast the foul sin from your soul!" He was interrupted by a deep, hollow voice that proceeded from an obscure corner, where a seeming old woman sat crouching, her form enveloped in a long cloak, her head hidden in a deep sunbonnet. "Yes! there is 'an accursed thing hidden' in your midst! and I am the Achan in your camp!" And the figure arose, and the cloak fell, and the bonnet was dropped, and the stranger stood revealed. "Valentine! Valentine!" cried Fannie, in a voice of agony. He crossed quickly through the astonished group, to the spot where she cowered. He stooped and spoke to her a few earnest words, and sat her down where she could drop her poor, young head upon the lap of the trembling, sorrow-stricken Phædra, while he stood up and gazed upon the crowd, who remained, stunned with consternation into silence. Valentine was frightfully changed in the last eighteen months. His flesh had wasted from his bones, until it left him almost a walking skeleton; his skin had darkened, and his eyes had sunken, and concentrated their fires until they burned like two imbedded stars; his voice was cavernous. While the negroes present returned his gaze in silent awe, he spoke: