She said it very slowly, and solemnly, and sadly. Whatever her offense was, she had invested her situation with the dignity of a religious duty. It was clear that her idea of obedience to God was to do precisely what she was doing. And this was so deeply impressed upon Amy Waring's mind that she was perplexed how to act. She knew that if her aunt suspected in her any intention of revealing the secret of her abode, she would disappear at once, and elude all search. And to betray it while it was unreservedly confided to her was impossible for Amy, even if she had not solemnly promised not to do so. Observing that Amy meant to say nothing, Lawrence Newt turned to Aunt Martha. "I will not quarrel with what you say, but I want you to grant me a request." Aunt Martha bowed, as if waiting to see if she could grant it. "If it is not unreasonable, will you grant it?" "I will," said she. "Well, now please, I want you to go next Sunday and hear a man preach whom I am very fond of hearing, and who has been of the greatest service to me." "Who is it?" "First, do you ever go to church?" "Always." "Where?" Aunt Martha did not directly reply. She was lost in reverie. "It is a youth like an angel," said she at length, with an air of curious excitement, as if talking to herself. "His voice is music, but it strikes my soul through and through, and I am frightened and in agony, as if I had been pierced with the flaming sword that waves over the gate of Paradise. The light of his words makes my sin blacker and more loathsome. Oh! what crowds there are! How he walks upon a sea of sinners, with their uplifted faces, like waves white with terror! How fierce his denunciation! How sweet the words of promise he speaks! 'The sacrifices of God are a broken spirit; a broken and a contrite heart, O God, thou wilt not despise.'" She had risen from her chair, and stood with her eyes lifted in a singular condition of mental exaltation, which gave a lyrical tone and flow to her words. "That is Summerfield," said Lawrence Newt. "Yes, he is a wonderful youth. I have heard him myself, and thought that I saw the fire of Whitfield, and heard the sweetness of Charles Wesley. I have been into the old John Street meeting-house, where the crowds hung out at the windows and doors like swarming bees clustered upon a hive. He swayed them as a wind bends a grain-field, Miss Amy. He swept them away like a mountain stream. He is an Irishman, with all the fervor of Irish genius. But," continued Lawrence Newt, turning again to Aunt Martha, "it is a very different man I want you to hear." She looked at him inquiringly. "His name is Channing. He comes from Boston." "Does he preach the truth?" she asked. "I think he does," answered Lawrence, gravely. "Does he drive home the wrath of God upon the sinful, rebellious soul?" exclaimed she, raising both hands with the energy of her words.