As a child I was very susceptible to fear. I remember one bitter cold night when the winds howled and the thieves prowled. Every nerve in me ached with fear. That night my mother kneeling by her bed, with her little children at her side, prayed in a low tremulous voice, and with a sweet English accent, until God seemed nearer than the raging winds, and more powerful than the evil forces that were abroad to do us harm. How happy I was the next morning to find that the wind had subsided, and that the horses were not stolen, and that no evil had befallen us! When a little child, religion was as real to me as my parents, or the atmosphere I breathed, or the food I ate. I am not certain of ever having been in a church until I was almost grown. But when I was probably five years old, I accompanied my mother to a revival meeting in an old schoolhouse. This schoolhouse, even to the lathing, was made of black walnut that was sawed at a local mill. Which of the many denominations was conducting the services I do not know. But one night there were probably ten people kneeling at what they called the "mourner's bench." During the evening such a psychic wave passed over those at the altar that the packed congregation, to see what was happening, rose as one person. At this point, my mother lifted me onto the desk before her which afforded me a plain view of all those who were kneeling at the front. A young woman with head thrown back and hair disheveled, was wringing her hands and crying in piercing tones, "O God, save my poor soul from hell!" Just beyond, a man lay in a trance. And then another woman, with perfectly rapturous face, throwing her head back, clapped her hands and shouted "glory." Other seekers were groaning and pleading with tremulous voices. The Christians who were assisting the seekers alternated their groanings of intercession with "amens" and shouts of praise. As it appeared to me the realms of the blessed and the realms of the damned were mingling their voices in that tumultuous scene. Heaven and hell seemed veritable realities before my eyes, and the picture was burned into my soul. The religion of my parents was simple, loving, and thoroughly ethical. These meetings were not criticized by them except that my father sometimes remarked at home that he liked the quiet meetings best. Much of the time there were no meetings in the community. Yet betimes services were conducted by all kinds of ministers, "descript and non-descript." It was not uncommon to hear these ministers say that no one ever got to heaven except by way of the "mourner's bench." One minister remarked that there was not a converted person in the Presbyterian Church except a few individuals who were converted outside at such meetings as he was conducting. Never having seen any of them, I took his word for it that the Presbyterians were an ungodly set.