The Union Daily Times

By MARTHA M. WILLIAMS

66

"Goin' to night-meetin', Billy?" Kitty Weems asked, sepulchrally, from the depths of the meal-barrel she was clearing out.

Billy stood just back of her, a full sack upon his shoulder. As she turned to untie it, their faces came so close together Billy had hard work to keep from stealing a kiss.

He had been to mill with a wagon-load of grist--taking the Weems sack purely for accommodation. Who wouldn't for a widow lady, the best neighbor in sickness or health, even if she hadn't the prettiest girl in the neighborhood for daughter?

She stood back a pace, lifting very blue eyes to repeat her question, Billy answered: "No, sir-ee, Bob! Ef I go I got ter be tied and toted. I'm so sick of the sight. They've mighty nigh camped at our house, all three since Sunday--now it's Friday--and they want ter hold out all next week."

"They will--if they get any mourners tonight," Kitty said reflectively. "That's why I asked you--I thought if you went, maybe we'd agree to go up together--and I 'most know if we do Betsy Joy and Tim Locket will tag after us--and maybe a lot more. Then--they'll shorely keep on, till there's a real revival--like they had when I was little."

Billy started at her. "Ain't you 'fraid?" he asked tremulously.

" 'Fraid of what?" Kitty asked innocently.

Billy half gasped. " 'Fraid of bein' struck dead like Ananias and Saphira," he said awedly.

Kitty tossed her head. "No! ain't a bit afraid," she flung at him. "Why should I be? Ma had me sprinkled into the church when I was just a month old."

Bill grinned sheepishly: "Ef you'll go along with me, and lemme kneel by you--why, maybe I'll agree to drive the wagon tonight--and save saddlin' horses for all the gang."

"And lemme go with you--you know I hate ridin' behind old Sister Wixon," Kitty cried joyously.

Billy nodded, but after a breath qualified assent with: "You got ter set on the wagon-board with me--else I'll stay home."

That evening Billy drove through a world moon-silvered as in a dream, barely conscious of the wagonful of hay and humanity, laughing, scrambling, jesting, behind him, wholly armored against the roughness of the road, the antics of his tricksy muleteam, even the shouted greeting of riders passing them at the gallop. Two of them were ministers.

Unpainted wooden benches flanked the aisles of the church in squares either hand of the pulpit. In front of it was a vacant square, knee-deep in clean new straw, with narrow backless benches hemming in three sides of it, and the outer edge of the pulpit bounding the fourth. Aisle benches were filled raggedly with men and women together--the rule of separate sitting was relaxed for night meetings.

Old Brother Amos slid suddenly into the vacant square, opened his hymnbook and his mouth simultaneously, and raised the tune of an old hymn so familiar there was no need of lining it out. Everybody stood throughout the singing; everybody likewise joined in with a will.

In course of it the ministers came in, vital, bright-eyed, drawing quick breaths, knelt each a moment in the pulpit in silent prayer, then rose as one man asking of the eldest member: "Brother Duncan, lead us in prayer." More singing followed the prayer, then a brief sermon from a good text. A prayer--very brief, a song, dear and known by heart--then the exhorter began to speak.

A long minute--nobody stirred. "Come," the minister repeated. "Come! Come!"

Billy got up, caught Kitty's hand and went forward, his face that of one moving in a trance. As the pair knelt, other feet pattered swiftly up the aisle.

Sure enough Betty and Tim had followed.

Thus began what lives in tradition as another Pentecost. Swiftly the whole assembly was fluid--sinners crying out for redemption, those of assured faith kneeling beside them, comforting, praying thus under-voicing the singing that seemed to reach up to heaven. For it rose straight from exalted hearts, from voices attuned to higher than earthly issues. It held power, conviction, forgiveness, the tenderness of love divine--it went on and on, up and up, till the moon hung low in the west.

All through it Billy knelt, silent, tense, holding Kitty's hand so hard it hurt--but she did not draw it away. Then after the final prayer, as someone raised the Doxology, the boy and girl stood up, glorified--heaven itself in their eyes.

Billy said tremulously: "At last I know God loves me. More'even than Kitty and me love each other. We'll keep on lovin' as long as we keep livin.' Now Brother Enson," to the eldest minister, "please, marry us--before the benediction."

It was done--with everybody laughing and crying--so happily thrilled only good flowed from them toward the young pair. This translated itself into concrete blessings, when a month later Billy and Kitty set up housekeeping in their new cabin home. It had been furnished throughout by the unbidden guests at the wedding--and, strange to relate, there was nothing in all the largesse that the young folk would have changed if they could.

(Copyright.)