about the interior as he took the seat offered him at the table, and praised the details of the furnishing with a reference to the effect of each at home. In this he satisfied that obscure fealty of the husband who feels that such a connection of the absent wife with some actual experience of his is equivalent to their joint presence. It was not so much to praise Mrs. Braile's belongings to her as to propitiate the idea of Mrs. Reverdy that he continued his flatteries. In the meantime Braile, who came in behind him, stood easing himself from one foot to the other, with an ironical eye slanted at Reverdy from under his shaggy brows; he dropped his head now, and began walking up and down the room while he listened in a sort of sarcastic patience.

"Ain't you goin' to have anything to eat, Mr. Braile?" his wife demanded, with plaintive severity.

Braile pulled at his cob-pipe, which muttered responsively:

"Not so long as I've got anything to smoke. Gets up," he explained to Reverdy, "and jerks it out of my mouth when we have n't got company."

"I reckon Abel knows how much to believe of that," Mrs. Braile commented, and Reverdy gave the pleased chuckle of a social inferior raised above his level by amiable condescension. But as if he thought it safest to refuse any share in this intimacy, he ended his adulations with the opinion:

"I should say that if these here two rooms was th'owed together, they'd make half as much as the Temple."

Braile stopped in his walk and bent his frown on Reverdy, but not in anger.

"This is the Temple: Temple of Justice-Justice of the Peace. Do you people think there's only one kind of temple in Leatherwood?"

Reverdy gave his chuckle again. "Well, Squire, I ought to know, anyway, all the log-rollun' I done for you last 'lection-time. I did n't hardly believe you'd git in, because they said you was a' infidel."

"Well, you could n't deny it, could

you?" Braile asked, with increasing friendliness in his frown.

"No, I could n't deny it, Squire. But the way I told 'em to look at it was, Mis' Braile was Christian enough for the whole family. Said you knowed more law and she knowed more gospel than all the rest of Leatherwood put together."

"And that was what elected the family, was it?" Braile asked. "Well, I hope Mrs. Braile won't refuse to serve," he said, and he began his walk again. "Tell her about that horse that broke into the meetin' last night and tried to play man."

Reverdy laughed, shaking his head over his plate of bacon and reaching for the corn-pone which Mrs. Braile passed him.

"You do beat all, Squire, the way you take the shine off of religious experience. Why," he addressed himself to Mrs. Braile,-"it was n't much as fur as anybody could make out. It was just the queerness of the whole thing." Reverdy went over the facts again, beginning with deprecation for the squire, but gathering respect for them in the interest they seemed to have for Mrs. Braile.

She listened silently, and then she asked:

"And what became of him?"

"Well, that 's where you got me, Mrs. Braile. Don't anybody know what become of him. Just kind of went out like a fire when the Power was workun' the hardest, and was n't there next time you looked where he been. Kind o' th'owed cold water on the meetun', and folks begun goun' home, and breakun' up and turnun' in; well, it was pretty nigh sun-up, anyway, by that time. I don't know! Made me feel all-overish. Seemed like I'd been dreamun', and that man was a vision." Reverdy had lifted an enraptured face, but at sight of Braile pausing in sarcastic pleasure, he dropped his head with a snicker. "I know the squire 'll laugh; but that 's the way it was.'

"He'll laugh the other side of his mouth some day, if he keeps on," Mrs. Braile said, with apparent reproof and latent pride. "Was Sally at the meetin' with you?"

"Well, no, she was n't," Reverdy began, and Braile asked:

"And did you wake her up and tell her about it?"

"Well, no, I did n't, Squire, that 's a fact. She woke me up. I just crep' in quiet and felt out the soft side of a puncheon for a nap, and the firs' thing I know was Sally havun' me by the shoulder, and wantun' to know about gittun' that corn groun' for breakfas'. My! I don't know what she'll say when I do git back!" Reverdy laughed a fearful pleasure, but his gaiety was clouded by a shadow projected from the cabin door.

"Well, I mought 'a' knowed it!" a voice at once fond and threatening called to Reverdy's quailing figure. The owner of the voice was a young woman unkempt as to the pale hair which escaped from the knot at her neck and stuck out there and dangled about her face in spite of the attempts made to gather it under the control of the high horn comb holding its main strands together. The lankness of her long figure showed in the calico wrapper which seemed her sole garment; and her large features were respectively lank in their way, nose and chin and high cheek-bones; her eyes wabbled in their sockets with the sort of inquiring laughter that spread her wide, loose mouth. She was barefooted, like Reverdy, on whom her eyes rested with a sort of burlesque menace, so that she could not turn them to Mrs. Braile in the attention which manners required of her, even when she added, "I just 'spicioned that he 'd 'a' turned in here soon 's I smelt your breakfas', Mrs. Braile; and the dear knows. whether I blame him so much, nuther."

"Then you'd better draw up, too, Sally," Mrs. Braile said, without troubling herself to rise from her own chair in glancing toward another for Mrs. Reverdy.

"Oh, no, I could n't, Mrs. Braile. I on'y just meant how nice it smelt. I got me somepun' at home before I left, and I ain't a bit hungry."

"Well, then, you eat breakfast for me; I'm hungry," the squire said. "Sit down!

You could n't get Abel away now, not if you went on an hour. Don't separate families!"

"Well, just as you say, Squire," Mrs. Reverdy snickered, and she submitted to pull up the chair which Mrs. Braile's glance had suggested. "It beats all what a excitement there is in this town about the goun's on at the camp-meetun' last night. If I 've heard it from one, I 've heard it from a dozen. I s'pose Abel 's tol' you?" She addressed herself impartially to Mrs. Braile across the table and to the squire tilted against the wall in his chair, smoking behind his wife.

"Not a word," the squire said, and his wife did not trouble herself to protest; Reverdy opened his mouth in a soundless. laugh at the squire's humor, and then filled it with bacon and corn-pone, and ducked his head in silence over his plate. "What goings on?"

"Why, that man that come in while Elder Grove was snatchun' the brands from the burnun', and snorted like a horse. But I know Abel 's tol' you. It's just like one of your jokes, Squire Braile; ain't it, Mrs. Braile?" Sally referred herself to one and the other.

"You won't get either of us to say, Sally,"-Mrs. Braile let the squire answer for both; "you'd better go on. I could n't hear too often about a man that snorted like a horse, if Abel did tell. What did the horses hitched back of the tents think about it? Any of 'em try to shout like a man?"

"Well, you may laugh, Squire Braile," Sally said, with a toss of her head for the dignity she failed of. She slumped forward with a laugh, and when she lifted her head she said through the victual that filled her mouth, "I dunno what the horses thought, but the folks believe it was a' apostle or somepun'."

"Who said so? Abel?"

"Oh, pshaw! d' you suppose I b'lieve anythun' Abel Reverdy says?" and this gave Reverdy a joy which she shared with him; he tried to impart it to Mrs. Braile, impassively pouring him a third cup of coffee. "I jes met Mis' Leonard comun'

up the cross-road, and she tol' me she saw our claybank hitched here, and I 'spicioned Abel was n't fur off, and that's why I stopped."

The husband and wife looked across the table in feigned fear and threat that gave them pleasure beyond speech.

"She did n't say it was your claybank that snorted?" the squire gravely inquired.

"Squire Braile, you surely will kill me!" and the husband joined the wife in a shout of laughter. "Now I can't hardly git back to what she did say. But, I can tell you, it was n't nawthun' to laugh at. Plenty of 'em keeled over where they sot, and a lot bounced up and down like it was a' earthquake, and pretty near all the women screamed. But he stood there straight as a ramrod, and never moved a' eye-winker. She said his face was somepun' awful-just as solemn and still! He never spoke after that one word 'Salvation,' but every once in a while he snorted. Nobody seen him come in, or ever seen him before till he first snorted, and then they did n't see anybody else. The preacher he preached along, and tried to act like as if nawthun' had happened, but it was no use; nobody did n't hardly pay no attention to him 'ceptun' the stranger himself; he never took his eyes off Elder Grove. Some thought he was tryun' to charm him, like a snake does a bird; but it did n't faze the elder."

ing?" He did not trouble himself to do more than frown heavily in the attempt to make out the passer. Mrs. Reverdy jumped from her chair and ran out to look.

"Well, as sure as I 'm alive, if it ain't that Gillespie girl! I bet she 'll know all about it. I'll just ketch up with her and git the news out of her, if there is any. Say, say, Jane!" she called to the girl as she ran up the road with the cow-like gait which her swirling skirt gave her. The girl stopped for her; then in apparent haste she moved on again, and Sally moved with her out of sight; her voice still made itself heard in uncouth cries and laughter.

Braile called into the kitchen, where Reverdy had remained in the enjoyment of Mrs. Braile's patient hospitality: "Here's your chance, Abel!" "Chance?" Reverdy questioned back with a full mouth.

"To get that corn of yours ground and beat Sally home."

"Well, Squire," Reverdy said, "I reckon you 're right." He came out into the open space where Braile sat. "Well, I won't fergit this breakfast very soon,' he offered his gratitude to Mrs. Braile over his shoulder as he passed through the door.

"You 're welcome, Abel,” she answered kindly, and when he had made his manners to the impassive squire and mounted his claybank, and thumped the horse into

"And when he gave the benediction, the snorter disappeared in a flash, with a strong smell of brimstone, I suppose?"

"Why, that was the thing of it, Squire. He just stayed, and shuck hands with everybody, pleasant as a basket of chips; and he went home with David Gillespie. He was just as polite to the poorest person there, but it was the big bugs that tuck the most to him."

"Well," the squire summed up, "I don't see but what your reports agree, and I reckon there must be some truth in 'em. Who's that up there at the pike-cross

into the porch and said to her husband, "I don't know as I liked your hinting him out of the house that way."

Braile did not take the point up, but remained thoughtfully smiling in the direction his guest had taken.

"The idea is that most people marry their opposites," he remarked, "and that gives the children the advantage of inheriting their folly from two kinds of fools. But Abel and Sally are a perfect pair, mental and moral twins; the only thing they don't agree in is their account of what became of that snorting exhorter. But the difference there is n't important. If

an all-wise Providence has kept them from transmitting a double dose of the same brand of folly to posterity, that 's one thing in favor of Providence." He took up his wife's point now. "If I had n't hinted him away, he 'd have stayed to dinner; you would n't have hinted him away if he 'd stayed to supper."

"Well, are you going to have some breakfast?" his wife asked. "I'll get you some fresh coffee."

"Well, I would like a little,-with the bead on,- Martha, that 's a fact. Have I got time for another pipe?"

"No, I don't reckon you have," his wife said, and she passed into the kitchen again, where she continued to make such short replies as Braile's discourse required of her.

He knocked his pipe out on the edge of his still-uptilted chair. as he talked.

"One fool like Abel I can stand, and I was just going to come in when Sally came in sight; and then I knew that two fools like Abel would make me sick. So I So I waited till the Creator of heaven and earth could get a minute off and help me out. But He seemed pretty busy with the solar system this morning, and I had about given up when He sent that Gillespie girl in sight. I knew that would fetch Sally; but it was an inspiration of my own to suggest Abel's chance to him. I don't want to put that on your Maker,

Martha."

"It was your inspiration to get him to stay in the first place," Mrs. Braile said. within.

"No, Martha; that was my unfailing obedience to the sacred laws of hospitality; I did n't expect to fall under their condemnation a second time, though." Mrs. Braile did not answer, and by the familiar scent from within Braile knew that his coffee must be nearly ready. As he dropped his chair forward, he heard a sound of frying, and "Pshaw, Martha!" he called. "You 're not getting me some fresh bacon?"

"Did you suppose there 'd be some left?" she demanded while she stepped to and fro at her labors. Her steps ceased

and she called, "Well, come in now, Matthew, if you don't want everything to get cold, like the pone is."

Braile obeyed, saying:

"Oh, I can stand cold pone," and at sight of the table, with the coffee and bacon renewed upon it, he mocked tenderly, "Now, just to reward you, Martha, I 've got half a mind to go with you to the next meeting in the Temple."

"I don't know as I'm goin' myself," she said, pouring the coffee.

"I wish you would, just to please me," he teased.

II

No one could say quite how it happened that the stranger went home from the camp-meeting with old David Gillespie and his girl. Many had come forward with hospitable offers, and the stranger had been affable with all; but he had slipped through the hands he shook and had parried the invitations made him. Gillespie had not seemed to invite him, and his shy daughter had shrunk aside. when the chief citizens urged their claims; yet the stranger went with them to their outlying farm, and spent all the next day there alone in the tall woods that shut its corn-fields in.

Sally Reverdy had failed to get any light from the Gillespie girl when she ran out from Squire Braile's cabin. The girl seemed still under the spell that had fallen upon many at the meeting, and it appeared. to Sally that she did not want to talk; at any rate, she did not talk to any satisfactory end. tory end. A squirrel-hunter believed he had caught a glimpse of the stranger in the chestnut woods behind the Gillespie spring-house, but he was not a man whose oath was acceptable in the community, and his belief was not generally shared. It was thought that the stranger would reappear at the last night of the camp-meeting, but the Gillespies came without him, and reported that they had expected he would come by himself.

The camp-meeting broke up after the Sunday morning service, and most of the worshipers, sated with their devotional ex

perience, went home, praising the Power in song as they rode away in the wagons laden with their camp furniture, and their children strewn over the bedding. But for others the fire of the revival burned through the hot, long, August Sabbath day, and a devout congregation crowded the Temple.

The impulse of the week past held over to the night unabated. The spacious logbuilt house was packed from wall to wall; the men stood dense; the seats were filled with women; only a narrow path was left below the pulpit for those who might wish to rise and confess Christ before the congregation. The people waited in a silence broken by their deep breathing, their devout whispering, the scraping of their feet; now and then a babe whose mother could not leave it at home wailed pitifully or spitefully till it was coaxed or scolded. still; now and then some one coughed. The air was thick; a bat scandalized the assemblage by flying in at the open door, and wavering round the tallow candles on the pulpit; one of the men beat it down with his hat, and then picked it up and crowded his way down the aisle out into the night with it. When he came back it was as if he had found the stranger whom they were all consciously expecting, and had brought him in with David Gillespie and his girl. She was tall and straight, like her father, and her hair was red, like his; her eyes were pearly blue, and the look in them was both wilful and dreamy.

The stranger smiled, and took the hands stretched out to him in passing by several of the different sectarians who used the Temple. Gillespie seemed not to notice or to care for the greetings to his guest, and his girl wore her wonted look of vague aloofness.

Matthew Braile had been given a seat at the front, perhaps in deference to his age and dignity, perhaps in confusion at his presence. He glanced up at the stranger with a keen glint through his branching eyebrows, and made a gutturai sound; his wife pushed him; and he said, "What?" and "Oh!" quite audibly; and she pushed him again for answer.

The Gillespies sat down with the stranger on the foremost bench. He wore the black broadcloth coat of the Friday night before; his long hair, combed back from his forehead, fell down his shoulders almost to his middle; the glances of his black eyes roved round the room, but were devoutly lowered at the prayer which opened the service. It was a Methodist who preached, but somehow to-night he had not the fervor of his sect; his sermon was cold, and addressed itself to the faith rather than the hope of his hearers. He spoke as from the hold of an oppressive spell; at times he was perplexed, and lost his place in his exhortation. In the close heat some drowsed, and the preacher was distracted by snoring from a corner near the door. He lifted his voice as if to rouse the sleeper or to drown the noise, but he could not. He came to the blessing at last, and the disappointed congregation rose to go out. Suddenly the loud snort that had dismayed the camp-meeting sounded through the heavy air, and then there came the thrilling shout of "Salvation!"

The people did not need to look where the stranger had been sitting; he had done what they hoped, what they expected, and he was now towering over those near him, with his head thrown back, and his hair tossed like a mane on his shoulders. The people stopped; some who had gone out crowded in again; no one knew quite what to do. The minister halted on the pulpit stairs; he had done his part for the night, and he did not apparently resent the action of the man who now took it on him to speak.

A tall, stout man among those who had lingered spoke from the aisle. He was the owner of the largest farm in the neighborhood and he had one of the mills on the creek. In his quality of miller everybody knew him, and he had the authority of a public character. Now he said:

"We want to hear something more than a snort and a shout from our brother here. We heard them Friday night, and we 've been talkin' about it ever since."

The appeal was half joking, half en