intentions--"we thank
Thee that another week has been wheeled along through the sand, about a
foot deep between here and the woods, and over them rotten spiles on
the way to the Point, and them four or five jaggedest boulders at the
fork o' the woods--I wish there needn't be quite so much zigzagging and
shuffling in their seats by them 't have come in barefoot afore the
Throne o' Grace," said Elder Cossey, suddenly opening his eyes, and
indicating the row of sculpins with distinct disfavor.

"Yes," he continued, "we've been a-straddlin' along through
troublements and trialments and afflickaments, hanging out our phiols
down by the cold streams o' Babylon, and not gittin' nothin' in 'em,
hohum!"

Vibrating thus mysteriously, and free and unconfined, between
exhortation and prayer, Elder Cossey finally merged into a recital of
his own weakness and vileness as a miserable sinner.

And here a strange thing happened. A brother who had been noticing the
winks and smiles cast broadly about, and thinking in all human justice
that Elder Cossey was getting more than his share, got up and declared
with emotion, that he'd "heered some say how folks was all'as talkin'
about their sins for effex, and didn't mean nothin' by it, but I can
say this much, thar ain't no talkin' for effex about Brother Cossey; he
has been, and is, every bit jest as honest mean as what he 's been
a-tellin' on!"

Elder Skates arose, trembling. "Vesty," said he, with unnatural
quickness of tone; "will you start 'Rifted Rock'?"

The blue, handsome eyes were on her mercilessly--she was suffocating
besides with a wild desire to laugh, her breath coming short and quick.
She gave one agonized look at Brother Skates, and then, lifted her eyes
to the window.

The clouds were sad and grand; there was a bird flying to them.

She fixed her eyes there, and her voice flowed out of her:

"'Softly through the storm of life,
Clear above the whirlwind's cry,
O'er the waves of sorrow, steals
The voice of Jesus, "It is I."'"

The music in her throat had trembled at first like the bird's flight,
winging as it soared, but now all that was over; her uplifted face was
holy, grave:

"'In the Rifted Rock I'm resting.'"

* * * * * *

Elder Cossey forgot his wrath in mysterious deep movings of
compunction. Fluke, who had entered, was soft, reverent, his fingers
twitching for his violin. Even so, I thought, as I listened,