He was large and handsome, with a marvelously sweet and winning voice—­a voice that could melt into irresistible tenderness, or swell into sonorous appeal and condemnation, or ring like a trumpet calling to battle.

His frequent grammatical errors, and lapses into vulgarity, counted for nothing against its charm, and the most commonplace words in the world would have borrowed much of the power of real oratory from its magic.  He knew its value and used it effectively—­perhaps even ostentatiously.

Geoffrey Mountain’s religion and methods, like the man himself, were showy, but, of their kind, sincere, and, though the good he accomplished might not be unmixed, it was a quantity to be reckoned with.

So the Rev. Geoffrey Mountain came to Avonlea, conquering and to conquer.  Night after night the church was crowded with eager listeners, who hung breathlessly on his words and wept and thrilled and exulted as he willed.  Into many young souls his appeals and warnings burned their way, and each night they rose for prayer in response to his invitation.  Older Christians, too, took on a new lease of intensity, and even the unregenerate and the scoffers found a certain fascination in the meetings.  Threading through it all, for old and young, converted and unconverted, was an unacknowledged feeling for religious dissipation.  Avonlea was a quiet place,—­and the revival meetings were lively.

When David and Mary Bell reached the church the services had begun, and they heard the refrain of a hallelujah hymn as they were crossing Harmon Andrews’ field.  David Bell left his wife at the platform and drove to the horse-shed.

Mrs. Bell unwound the scarf from her bonnet and shook the frost crystals from it.  In the porch Flora Jane Fletcher and her sister, Mrs. Harmon Andrews, were talking in low whispers.  Presently Flora Jane put out her lank, cashmere-gloved hand and plucked Mrs. Bell’s shawl.

“Mary, is the elder going to testify to-night?” she asked, in a shrill whisper.

Mrs. Bell winced.  She would have given much to be able to answer “Yes,” but she had to say stiffly,

“I don’t know.”

Flora Jane lifted her chin.

“Well, Mrs. Bell, I only asked because every one thinks it is strange he doesn’t—­and an elder, of all people.  It looks as if he didn’t think himself a Christian, you know.  Of course, we all know better, but it LOOKS that way.  If I was you, I’d tell him folks was talking about it.  Mr. Bentley says it is hindering the full success of the meetings.”

Mrs. Bell turned on her tormentor in swift anger.  She might resent her husband’s strange behavior herself, but nobody else should dare to criticize him to her.

“I don’t think you need to worry yourself about the elder, Flora Jane,” she said bitingly.  “Maybe ’tisn’t the best Christians that do the most talking about it always.  I guess, as far as living up to his profession goes, the elder will compare pretty favorably with Levi Boulter, who gets up and testifies every night, and cheats the very eye-teeth out of people in the daytime.”