"Did you know there was quite a quarrel about you this morning?" asks
one of the guests.
The words jar. In answer to my look of inquiry, he proceeds:
"There was a dispute about your holding a religious service at the
picnic grounds. They made it a political matter--one party threatened
to leave if you did preach, the other threatened to leave if you did not
preach. There was quite an excitement about it until it was found that
you were gone, and then everybody quieted down."
There is a silence. I break it by telling them how I spent the day, and
then they are very quiet.
The next Sabbath every soul at the place united in a request for a
religious service, the list headed by a high-spirited and brilliant
Pennsylvania lady who had led the opposing forces the previous Sunday.
Winter-Blossomed.
I think I saw him the first Sunday I preached in San Jose, in 1856. He
was a notable-looking man. I felt attracted toward him by that
indefinable sympathy that draws together two souls born to be friends. I
believe in friendship at first sight. Who that ever had a real friend
does not? Love at first sight is a different thing--it may be divine
and eternal, or it may be a whim or a passing fancy.
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