Some of the sharp old church-members
began to complain that his exhortations were losing their pungency. The
truth was, he was preaching for Myrtle Hazard. He was getting bewitched
and driven beside himself by the intoxication of his relations with her.
All this time she was utterly unconscious of any charm that she was
exercising, or of being herself subject to any personal fascination. She
loved to read the books of ecstatic contemplation which he furnished her.
She loved to sing the languishing hymns which he selected for her. She
loved to listen to his devotional rhapsodies, hardly knowing sometimes
whether she were in the body, or out of the body, while he lifted her
upon the wings of his passion-kindled rhetoric. The time came when she
had learned to listen for his step, when her eyes glistened at meeting
him, when the words he uttered were treasured as from something more than
a common mortal, and the book he had touched was like a saintly relic.
It never suggested itself to her for an instant that this was anything
more than such a friendship as Mercy might have cultivated with
Great-Heart. She gave her confidence simply because she was very young
and innocent.
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