Upon Pepeeta this message had fallen like a thunderbolt.  Her Oriental imagination, her awakened conscience, her throbbing heart had all been thrilled.  She did not move; her eyes were still fixed on the prophet; her face was white; her hands were clasped tightly in her lap.

David leaned forward in his seat and listened like a culprit hearing sentence from a judge.  Those who were closely observing his noble countenance saw it suddenly light up with the glow of a spiritual ecstasy, and rightly conjectured that he was burning with the zeal of martyrdom.  He saw his way, for the first time, to a worthy expiation of his sin.  The prophet had interpreted the purpose of God and pointed out the path of duty.  He started to his feet, but at the same instant over in the corner of the room rose the figure of a man whose full form, benignant countenance and benevolent manner afforded the most marked contrast to that of the Jeremiah who had electrified them by his appeal to righteousness.

He moved toward one of the half dozen candles which were still burning, and stood within the narrow circle of its feeble rays.  Drawing from the inner pocket of his coat a well-worn volume he opened it, held it up to the light and began to read.  The tones of his voice were clear and mellifluous, his articulation slow and distinct, and his soul seemed permeated with the wondrous depth and beauty of what is perhaps the most exquisite passage in the literature of the world.  It was the story of the prodigal son.

As he proceeded, and that brief but perfect drama unfolded itself before the imagination of his hearers, it was as if they had never heard it before, or at least as if its profound import had never been revealed to their dull minds.  Intimations and suggestions which had never been disclosed to them came out like lines written in sensitive ink, under the influence of light and heat.  The living medium through which they were uttered seemed slowly to melt away, and as in a dissolving view, the sublime teacher, the humble Galilean stood before them, and they heard his voice!  The last words died away; the reader took his seat without uttering a single comment.  Not a person moved.

Each heart in that silent room was thrilled with emotions which were common to all.  But there was one which had a burden all its own.

The demure Quaker maiden who had looked love out of her dove-like eyes three years ago when Pepeeta appeared for the first time among these quiet folk, was in her old familiar seat.  Her life had never been the same since that hour, for the man whom she loved with all the deep intensity of which a heart so young, so pure, so true was capable, had been suddenly stolen from her by a stranger.  Her thwarted love had never found expression, and she had borne her pain and loss as became the child of a religion of silence, patience and fortitude.  But the wound had never healed, and now she was compelled to be a sad and hopeless spectator of another scene which sealed her fate and made her future hopeless.  Her bonnet hid the sad face from view, as her heart hid its secret.