“I wonder who he is?” she said again, as these thoughts flashed through her brain, and, following out the next impulse that came to her, she stopped an old gentleman who was walking leisurely down, and said, as she pointed out her late informant: 

“What is that man’s name, please?  I can’t recall it.”

“That,” said the old gentleman, “is Prof.  Sherwin, of Newark.  Have you heard him sing?”

“Yes.”

“Well, that is worth hearing; and have you heard him talk?”

“No.”

“Well, he can talk; you will hear him, and enjoy it, too; see if you don’t.  But I’ll tell you what it is, young lady, to know him thoroughly you ought to hear him pray!  There is the real power in a man.  Let me know how a man can pray and I’ll risk his talking.”

Eurie had got much more information now than she had asked for.  She ventured on no more questions, but made all haste to her tent, where, seated upon a corner of the bed, one foot tucked under her while the unfortunate shoe tried to dry, she sewed industriously on the zig-zag tear in her dress, and tried to imagine what she could do next.  Certainly they had long days at Chautauqua.  “I shall go to meeting this afternoon,” she said, resolutely, “if they have three sermons, each an hour long; and what is more, I shall find out where that Sunday-school lesson is.”

The next thing she did was to write a letter to her brother Nellis, a dashing boy two years her senior and her favorite companion in her search for pleasure.  Here is a copy of the letter: 

“DEAR NEL:  I wish you were here.  Chautauqua isn’t so funny as it might be.  There are some things that are done here continually.  In the first place, it rains.  Why, you never saw anything like it!  It just can’t help it.  The sun puts on a bland face and looks glowing intentions, and while you are congratulating your next neighbor on the prospect, she is engaged in clutching frantically after her umbrella to save her hat from the first drops of the new shower.  Next, they have meetings, and there is literally no postponement on account of the weather.  It is really funny to see the way in which the people rush when the bell rings, rain or shine.  Nel, only think of Flossy Shipley going in the rain to hear a man preach of the ‘Influence of the Press,’ or something of that sort!  It was good though, worth hearing.  I went myself, because, of course, one must do something, and the frantic fashion of the place is to go to meeting.  At the same time I don’t understand Flossy:  she is different from what she ever was at home.  I suppose it is the force of the many shining examples all around her.  You know she always was a good little sheep about following somebody’s lead.

“Marion is reporting, and has to be industrious.  She is queer, Nel; she professes infidelity, you know; and you have no idea how mad she gets over anything that seems to be casting reproach on Christianity (unless indeed she says it herself, which is often enough, but then she seems to think it is all right).