The afternoon was growing to a close.  The sun sank into the western sea.  The Elder, carried along by the awakened missionary spirit, continued his talk.  He explained that the Father had by means of the Son pointed out the way of life, called the plan of salvation, or gospel of Jesus Christ.  He spoke of faith, repentance, and baptism for the remission of sins; for, said the Elder to himself, even the minister has need of these things.

Lucy drank eagerly the words of life.  Her father sat unmoved, making no comment or objection.  He had never been one to wrangle over religion; had prided himself, in fact, on being liberal and broad-minded; so he would not dispute even though he could not altogether agree.  The Elder’s words came to him in a strange way.  Had he heard all this before?  If so, it had been in some long-forgotten past; and this man’s discourse only awakened a faint remembrance as of a distant bell tolling across the hills.  Away back in his youth, he must have heard something like this; or was it an echo of some pre-existent world—­he had heard of such things before.  Perhaps it was the man’s tone of voice, his mannerism that recalled, in some way, some past impression.

The Elder stopped.  Lucy touched her father’s arm.

“Father,” she said, “I believe you are cold.  I had better get your coat.”

The minister arose, as if stiffened in the joints by long sitting.  He reached out his hand to the Elder.  “I have enjoyed your gospel talk,” he said.  “May I ask your name, and to what Church you belong, for evidently you are a preacher.”

“My name is George Malby, and I am an elder of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, commonly known as ‘Mormons.’”

“A ‘Mormon!’” a number of voices chorused.

Some confusion followed, and the party broke up.  Lucy, her father, and Chester, still lingered.

“Father,” said Lucy, “I had intended to introduce you to Elder Malby, but I wanted you to hear, unprejudiced, what he had to say.  What he has been teaching is ‘Mormonism,’ and you’ll admit now that it is not at all bad.  You never would listen nor read.”

“Lucy—­that will do.  Good evening, gentlemen.  Come Lucy.”

Later that same evening when most of the passengers had retired, the Rev. Mr. Strong came up on deck again.  He took off his cap so that the breeze might blow unhindered through the thin, gray locks.  He paced slowly the length of the promenade deck with hands behind his back and eyes alternatingly looking into the dark sky and to the deck at his feet.  The old man’s usual erect form was bent a little as he walked, his step broke occasionally from the rhythmatical tread.  There was war in the minister’s soul.  Conflicting emotions fought desperately for ascendency.  Memories of the past mingled with the scenes of the present, and these became confused with the future.  As a minister of the gospel for half a lifetime, he had never had quite such a wildly disordered mind.  He wiped the perspiration from his brow.  He groaned in spirit so that moans escaped from his lips.  The sea was beautifully still, but rather would he have had it as wild and as boisterous as that which was within his heart.