CHAPTER X. HOW THE "FLITTING" ENDED.

As for Ruth Erskine, if she had been asked whether she was enjoying the day, she would hardly have known what answer to make; she could not even tell why the excursion was not in every respect all that it had promised in the morning. She had no realization of how much the atmosphere of the day before lingered around her, and made her notice the contrast between the people of yesterday and the people of to-day. Mrs. Smithe, if she were a Christian, as her nephew insisted, was one of the most unfortunate specimens of that class for Ruth Erskine to meet; because she was a woman who entered into pleasure and fashion, and entertainments of all sorts, with zest and energy and only in matters of religious interest seemed to lose all life and zeal.

Now Ruth Erskine, calm as a summer morning herself over all matters pertaining to the souls of people in general, and her own in particular, was yet exceedingly fond of seeing other people act in a manner that she chose to consider consistent with their belief; therefore she despised Mrs. Smithe for what she was pleased to term her "hypocrisy." At the same time, while at Saratoga, she had quite enjoyed her society. They rode together on fine mornings, sipped their "Congress" together before lunch, and attended hops together in the evenings. Now the reason why Mrs. Smithe's society had so suddenly palled upon her, and the words that she was pleased to call "conversation" become such vapid things, Ruth did not know, and did not for one instant attribute to Chautauqua; and yet that meeting had already stamped its impression upon her. From serene, indifferent heights she liked to look down upon and admire earnestness; therefore Chautauqua, despite all her disgust over the common surroundings and awkward accommodations, had pleased her fancy and arrested her attention more than she herself realized. It was her fate to be thrown almost constantly with Mrs. Smithe during the day, and before the afternoon closed she was surfeited. She heartily wished herself back to the grounds, and found herself wondering what they were singing, and whether the service of song was really very interesting.

One episode in her day had interested her, and she could not tell whether it had most amused or annoyed her. One of their party was conversing with a gentleman as she came up. She had just time to observe that he was young and fine-looking, when the two turned to her, and she was introduced to the stranger.

"You are from Chautauqua?" he said, speaking rapidly and earnestly. "Grand meeting, isn't it? Going to be better than last year, I think. Were you there? No? Then you don't know what a treat you are to have. I'm very sorry to lose to-day. It has been a good day, I know. The programme was rich; but a matter of business made it necessary to be away. It is unfortunate for me that I am so near home. If I were two or three hundred miles away where the business couldn't reach me, I should get more benefit. Miss Erskine, what is your opinion of the direct spiritual results of this gathering? I do not mean upon Christians. No one, of course, can doubt its happy influence upon our hearts and lives. But I mean, are you hopeful as to the reaching of many of the unconverted, or do you consider its work chiefly among us?" Such a volley of words? They fairly poured forth! And the speaker was so intensely in earnest, and so assured in his use of that word "we," as if it were a matter that was entirely beyond question that she was one of the magic "we." She did not know how to set out to work to enlighten him. In fact, she gave little thought to that part of the matter, but, instead, fell to wondering what  was her idea—whether she did expect to see results of any sort from the great gathering, and that being the case, what she expected? "Spiritual results," she said to herself, and a smile hovered over her face—what  were "spiritual results?" She knew nothing about them. Were there any such things? Eurie Mitchell, had such a question occurred to her, would have asked it aloud at once and enjoyed the sense of shocking her auditor. But Ruth did not like to shock people; she was too much of a lady for that.

"What proportion of that class of people are here, do you think?" she said, at last. "Are not the most of them professing Christians?" "Precisely the question that interests me. I should really like to know. I wonder if there is no way of coming at it? We might call for a rising vote of all who loved the Lord; could we not? Wouldn't it be a beautiful sight?—a great army standing up for him! I incline to your opinion that the most of them are Christians, or at least a large proportion. But I should very much like to know just how far this idea had touched the popular heart, so as to call out those who are not on the Lord's side." "They would simply have come for the fun of the thing, or the novelty of it," she said, feeling amused again that almost of necessity she was speaking of herself and using the pronoun "they." What would this gentleman think if he should bring about that vote of which he spoke and happen to see her among the seated ones?

"'A wolf in sheep's clothing' he would suppose me to be," she said to herself. "But I am sure I have not told him that I belong to the 'we' at all. If he chooses to assume things in that way, it is not my fault." Apparently he answered both her expressed sentence and her thought:

"I do not think so," he said, earnestly. "I doubt if any have come simply for fun or for novelty. There are better places in which to gratify both tastes. I believe there is more actual interest in this subject, even among the unconverted, than many seem to think. They are reasonable beings. They must think, and many of them, no doubt, think to good purpose. It may not be clear even to themselves for what they have come; But I believe in some instances, to say the least, it will prove to have been the call of the Spirit." Again Ruth felt herself forced to smile, not at the earnestness—she liked that, but there was her party, and she rapidly reviewed them—Marion, with her calm, composed, skeptical views, indifferent alike to the Christian or unchristian way of doing things; Eurie, who lived and breathed for the purpose of having what in wild moments she called "a high time;" Flossy with her dainty wardrobe, and her dainty ways, and her indifference to everything that demanded thought or care. Which of them had been "called by the Spirit"? There was herself, and for the time she gave a little start. What had  she come to Chautauqua for? After all she was the only one who seemed to be absolutely without a reason for being there. Marion's avowed intention had been to make some money; Eurie's to have a free and easy time; Flossy had come as she did everything else, because "they" did. But now, what about Ruth Erskine? She was not wont to do as others did, unless it happened to please her. What had been her motive? It was strange to feel that she really did not know. What if this strange speaking young man were right, and she had been singled out by the Spirit of God! The thought gave her a thrill, not of pleasure, but of absolute, nervous fear. What did she know of that gracious Spirit? What did she know of Christ? To her there was no beauty in him. She desired simply to be left alone. She was silent so long that her companion gave her a very searching review from under his heavy eyebrows, and then his face suddenly lighted as if he had solved a problem.

"May I venture to prophesy that you have some friend here whom you would give much to feel had been drawn here by the very Spirit of God?" He spoke the words eagerly and with earnestness, but with utmost respect, and added, "If I am right I will add the name to my list for special prayer. Do not think me rude, please. I know how pleasant it is to feel there is a union of desire in prayer. I have enjoyed that help often. We do not always need to know who those are for whom we pray. God knows them, and that is the needful thing. Good-evening. I am glad to have met you. It is pleasant to have additions to our list of fellow-heirs." How bright his smile was as he said those words! And how thoroughly manly and yet how strikingly childlike had been his words and his trust! Ruth watched him as he walked rapidly away to overtake a friend who had just passed them. Do you remember a certain gentleman, Harold Wayne by name, who had walked with them, walked especially with Ruth, down to the depot on the morning of departure, who had toyed with her fan and complained that he could not imagine what they were going to bury themselves out there for? Ruth thought of him now, and the contrast between his lazily exquisite air and drawling words and the fresh, earnest life that glowed in this young man's veins brought a positive quiver of disgust over her handsome face. There was no shadow of a smile upon it now. Instead, she felt a nameless dread. How strange the talk had been! To what had she committed herself by her silence and his blunders? She pray for any one! What a queer thing that would be to do. She anxious that any one should be led by the spirit of God! The spirit of God frightened her. For whom would this young man pray? Not certainly for any friend of hers; yet he would put the name of some stranger in his prayers. He was thoroughly in earnest, and he was the sort of a man to do just what he said. God, he had said, would understand whom he meant. For whom would God count those prayers? For her? And that thought also frightened her.

"They are all lunatics, I verily believe, from the leaders to the followers," she said in irritation, and then she wished herself at home. During the remainder of the day she was engaged in trying to shake off the impression that the stranger had left upon her. Go where she would, say what she might, and she really exerted herself to be brilliant and entertaining, there followed her around the memory of those great, earnest eyes when he said, "I will add the name to my list for special prayer." What name? He knew hers. He would say, doubtless, "Her friend for whom she was anxious." But the one to whom he prayed would know there was no such person. What would  He do with that earnest prayer? For she knew it would be earnest. She was not used to theological mazes, and if ever a girl was heartily glad when a day of pleasuring was over, and the boat had touched again at the Chautauqua wharf, it was Ruth Erskine.

As for Flossy, it so happened that Charlie Flint, after Marion had startled and disgusted him, sought refuge with her. She was pretty and dainty, and did not look strong-minded; not in the least as if her forte was to preach, so he made ready to have a running fire of small talk with her.

This had been Flossy's power in conversation for several years. He had judged her rightly there. But do you remember with whom her morning had commenced? Do you know that all the day thus far she had seemed to herself to be shadowed by a glorious presence, who walked steadily beside her, before her, on either hand, to shield, and help and bless?

It was very sweet to Flossy, and she was very happy; happier than she had ever been in her life. She smiled to herself as the others chatted, she hummed in undertone the refrain of a hymn that she had caught in a near tent that morning:

"I am so glad that Jesus loves me." Wasn't she glad! Was there anything better to find in all this world than the assurance of this truth? She felt that the thought was large enough to fill heaven itself. After that, what hope was there for Charlie Flint and his small talk? Still, he tried it, and if ever he did hard work it was during that talk. Flossy was sweet and cheery, but preoccupied. There was a tantalizingly pleasant smile on her face, as if her thoughts might be full of beauty, but none of them seemed to appear in her words. She did not flush over his compliments, nor was she disturbed at his bantering.

He got out of all patience.

"I beg pardon," he said, in his flippantly gallant way, "but I'm inclined to think you are very selfish; you are having your enjoyment all to yourself. To judge by the face which you have worn all day your heart is bubbling over with it, and yet you think about it instead of giving me a bit." Flossy looked up with a shy, sweet smile that was very pleasant to see, and the first blush he had been able to call forth that day glowed on her cheeks. Was it true? she questioned within herself. Was she being selfish in this, her new joy? Ought she to try to tell him about it? Would he understand? and could she speak about such things, anyway? She didn't know how. She shrank from it, and yet perhaps it would be so pleasant to him to know. No, on the whole, she did not think it would be pleasant. They had not talked of the meetings nor of religious matters at all; but for all that the subtle magnetism that there is about some people had told her that Charlie Flint would not sympathize in her new hopes and joys.

Well, if that were so, ought she not all the more to tell him, so that he might know that to one more person Christ had proved himself a reality, and not the spiritual fancy that he used to seem to her? Flossy, you see, was taking long strides that first day of her Christian experience, and was reaching farther than some Christians reach who have been practicing for years. Something told her that here was a chance of witnessing for the one who had just saved her. She thought these thoughts much more quickly than it has taken me to write them, and then she spoke:

"Have I been selfish? I do not know but I have. It is all so utterly new that I hardly know how I am acting; but it is true that my heart has been as light as a bird's all day. The truth is, I have found a friend here at Chautauqua who has just satisfied me." "Have you indeed!" said Mr. Charlie, giving, in spite of his well-bred effort to quell it, an amused little laugh. And in his heart he said, "What a ridiculous little mouse she is! I wonder if they have the wedding day set already, and if she will announce it to me?" Then aloud: "How very fortunate you have been! I wish I could find a friend so easily as that! I wonder if I am acquainted with him? Would you mind telling me his name?" And then Flossy answered just one word in a low voice that was tremulous with feeling, and at the same time wonderfully clear, and with a touch of joy in it that would not be suppressed, "Jesus." Then it was that the exquisite young fop at her side was utterly dumbfounded. He could not remember ever before in his life being so completely taken by surprise and dismay that he had not a word to answer. But this time he said not a single word. He did not even attempt an answer, but paced the length of the deck beside her in utter and confused silence, then abruptly seated her, still in silence, and went hurriedly away. Flossy, occupied with the rush of feeling that this first witnessing for the new name called forth, gave little heed to his manner, and was indifferent to his departure. He was right as to one thing. Her love was still selfish: it was so new and sweet to her that it occupied all her heart, and left no room as yet for the outside world who knew not this friend of hers. They were almost at the dock now, and the glimmer of the Chautauqua lights was growing into a steady brightness. As she stood leaning over the boat's side and watching the play of the silver waves, there brushed past her one who seemed to be very quietly busy. One hand was full of little leaflets, and he was dropping one on each chair and stool as he passed. She glanced at the one nearest her and read the title: "The True Friend," and it brought an instant flush of brightness to her face to understand those words and feel that the Friend was hers. Then she glanced at the worker and recognized his face. He had prayed for her. She could not forget  that face. It was plain also that his eyes fell on her. He knew her, and something in her face prompted the low-toned sentence as be paused before her: "You have found the Father, I think." And Flossy, with brightening eyes, answered, quickly, "Yes, I have." And then the boat touched at the wharf, and the crowd elbowed their way out.

There were two opinions expressed about that excursion by two gentlemen as they made their way up the avenue. One of the gentleman was clerical, and spectacled, and solemn.

"There go a boat-load of excursionists," he said to his companion. "They come, as likely as not delegates, from some church or Sabbath-school, and the way they do their work is to go off for a frolic and be gone all day. I saw them when I left this morning. That is a specimen of a good deal of the dissipation that is going on here under the guise of religion. I don't know about it; sometimes I am afraid more harm than good will be done." The other speaker was Mr. Charlie Flint, and as he rushed past these two he said to  his companion, "Confound it all! Talk about getting away from these meetings! It's no use; it can't be done. A fellow might just as well stay here and run every time the bell rings. I heard more preaching to-day on this excursion than I did yesterday; and a good deal more astonishing preaching, too."