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I heard of a civilian official, on his way to Paris after the Armistice, who was just saved by rapid explanations from the drastic attention of a crowd of Tommies who mistook him for a War Correspondent. But Mr. Beaman's book is not like war correspondence. It can be commended to those who were not there, but who wish to hear a true word or two. Mr.
Charles G. Finney, a pulpit orator, who, as a terrifier of human souls, proved himself the equal of Savonarola. He held a protracted meeting in the Rev. Dr. Beaman's church, which many of my schoolmates attended. The result of six weeks of untiring effort on the part of Mr.
Beaman's simple narrative, however, with its humanity and easy humour, often lets in light on strange affairs, as though he had forgotten what had been locked up, and had carelessly opened a forbidden door. He shuts it again at once, like a gentlemen, and we follow him round hoping that presently he will do the same again.
But she did not tell of her efforts to find them, nor of Nathan Beaman's appearance. "They are hateful things!" Louise declared, "but it won't be long before they'll go to Albany with their father. Oh!" she ended a little fearfully. "I ought not to have told that. It's a secret," she added quickly. "No, it isn't. They told me," answered Faith, "and if it were a secret I shouldn't want to know it.
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