he might have fancied himself just awakened from his long sleep, to hear confused murmurs in his native tongue.

Under this awful weight of learning, the brain sometimes staggered. To the imprudent, to the rash, to the over-zealous, vital truths might, at times, be half-obscured, in showing the eunuch as he went down into the water—eis, into; ah! shall we ever forget that eis with its suggestion of the cooling tide?—Into the water, then, the eunuch descended; and good care was taken that he should not be left there. The jailer, too,—was there no water in the courtyard? And Lydia's household—what right has one to presume her mistress over a nursery? At these debates, even the eloquent Henry Clay may act as moderator, generously appreciative of the eloquence of A. Campbell. So, as we have said, the theme may at times grow obscured with a sort of Greek mist; but out of this mist there rises, at last, a face of meekness and suffering beneath its crown of thorns—a crown of thorns, dear reader, which the Son of God wore that you and I might wear crowns of glory.

It is interesting to note that here is a religion which its opponents refused to take at its face value. Its adherents wished to be called only by Bible names, such as Christians, or disciples of Christ. Their opponents called them "Campbellites." These disciples claimed that they had gone back to the days of the beginning of the church, to find there the true standard of faith and practice. Their opponents said they had started a new religion, and that it dated from the days of Alexander Campbell. The disciples said that they added nothing to the Word of God, took from it nothing; that where the Bible was silent they were silent, that where it spoke they spoke; that, in matters of opinion, everyone might think what he pleased, but that, in matters of essentials, there should be unity. The opponents said that as a matter of fact, the religion of the reformers was a religion of the head, and that its central idea was baptism.

"You do not believe that baptism is necessary to salvation," the disciples said; "then why do you baptize?"

"Aha!" the old cry was raised, "you think water will save you!" And then the begrudged concession, "Well, if you don't believe it, your church does!"

In a word, then, the individual adherents of the religion were allowed to hold opinions contrary to what the adherents as a whole, were supposed to believe; while, at the same time, not one adherent of the religion could be found who professed to hold the views that the opponents of the religion ascribed to all the brotherhood! This was not from a willful determination to misrepresent, but rather from a sense of generous good-will. It was the only way to rescue one's kindred and friends from the inevitable hell that awaits the adherents of heretical doctrines.

"Tom is a good man," said a devout adherent of the established order of things, referring to minister Thomas Arnold of the Kentucky disciples, "but he preaches a lie and will be damned for it!" And the way to save one's beloved from this damnation was to believe that they did not really hold the views of these Ishmaelites of the "new religion," but were "Baptists at heart"—or Pedobaptists, according to one's point of view.

Thomas Campbell's "Declaration and Address" appeared in 1809; but it was not until September, 1832 that the first general meeting of the disciples of Christ was held, in Lexington, Kentucky. Everyone understood that such an assemblage had no authority over local organizations. Christian soldiers came together to talk over their victories and defeats, and to plan for fresh campaigns. As time passed by, such men as John T. Johnson and John I. Rogers were appointed state evangelists; but they were supported by several churches combining to furnish the funds.

At the time Mattie Carr was boarding at her brother's school, there was no general board behind missionary enterprises. But later a convention met at Harrodsburg and employed four evangelists; that was in 1857. The next year sixteen were employed, and in a year they won 1,936 converts to the church. The year following, twenty evangelists added to the faith 2,020. The "new religion" was growing at an unheard of rate, and the more it grew the hotter raged the noise of battle and the clash of arms.

It is in such circumstances as these that one learns to weigh one's own opinion, to use it, if need be, as a battering-ram against the opinions of other folk; that one learns to realize the importance of self-reliance, self-defense, self-assertion. Before Mattie Myers was twelve years old, the leading purposes of her after-life were already crystalized in thought and determination. It will be interesting to watch how she adhered to these principles, and whither they brought her at last. As we have said, they were three in number, more or less commingled in her girlhood's plans of life; an unwavering devotion to the South; a fixed resolve to become a teacher of girls; and a conviction that the plea of the disciples of Christ was the need of the world.

CHAPTER III.

A KENTUCKY BOY.

It was while the black nurse was doubtfully shaking her head over the prospect of a long life for Mattie Myers, that two boys presented themselves at the village schoolhouse of May's Lick, Kentucky. They were two brothers who resembled each other so closely, and were so inseparable, that they were often thought to be twins. Oliver Carr, however, was two years younger than Owen[2]. They had come up from the country in the old family barouche, and the fact that they were from the country, was shown in their movements and their dress.

Their father, while still on the farm in Lewis County, had declared, "I will educate my children, if I don't leave them a cent when I die." That is why he sold his farm to invest the proceeds in town property at May's Lick; and that is why Owen and Oliver are presenting themselves at the door of May's Lick Academy. The family that had just moved to town, consisted of William Carr and his wife, and their four sons and three daughters. Of the children, the only one essential to this narrative is he who gave his name to the teacher as Oliver A. Carr—better known in his family and among his young companions as "Ollie."

The year was 1857. Of all the proud towns of Kentucky—proud of blood and wealth—no city was prouder than May's Lick. Not even Lexington, five counties to the southwest, thought more of her high birth, her fine horses, her opulence, than did this little May's Lick of Mason County. The schoolmates of the Carrs were the children of the wealthy. The boys came to school in red-topped boots, riding prancing ponies, and were waited upon by their black bodyguards. The girls were, petted, and spoiled, clad in dainty apparel, born to refinement and a nicety of taste, intolerant of whatever appeared to their sensitive minds as "common." Nor was this superiority of manner merely superficial. Beneath the gleam of showy beauty, there was the gold of culture.

Naturally enough, these children of the rich, whether on the play-ground, or in the school-room, stood aloof from Owen and Oliver,—or as they were called "Bud and Ollie." In the first place, they were newcomers; again, they were awkward and their clothes were made from the same piece of their mother's weaving; and their father had