"Perhaps he won't be here all the time to use his voice," whispered back
Flossy, without much idea what she was saying. The novelty of the scene
had stolen her senses.

Marion laughed softly.

"You blessed little idiot!" she said, "don't you know that he
manufactured Chautauqua, root and branch? Or if he didn't quite
manufacture the trees he looked after their growth, I dare say. Why,
this meeting is his darling, his idol, his best beloved. 'Hear him
speak?' I guess you will. I should like to see a meeting of this kind
that didn't hear from him. It will have to be when he is out of the
body."

"How do you know about him?" whispered Flossy, struck with sudden
curiosity.

"I've written him up," Marion said, briefly. "I've had to do it several
times. Oh, I'm a veteran at Sunday-school meetings. But he is the
hardest man to write about that there is among them, because you can
never tell what he may happen to say or do next. It will never do to
jump at his conclusions, and slip in a neat little sentence of your own
as coming from him if you don't happen to have taken very profuse notes,
because as sure as you do he will spring up in some tiresome meeting in
less than a week and unsay every single word that you said. He said--"

At this point a poor martyr, who had the misery to sit directly in front
of these two whisperers, turned and gave them such a look as only a man
can under like circumstances, and awed them into five minutes of quiet.