elusion concerning the parson's purpose. "She've done
no harm, sir. She've been a good child all her life."

"Elizabeth," said the parson, firmly, "repent!"

"What you done with my Judith?"

"Repent!"

Elizabeth's heart began to work beyond its strength. "For God's sake,
parson!" she gasped; "you'll not hurt she, will you?"

"Repent, I say!"

"I'll repent, parson. What you goin' t' do with Judy? Don't hurt she,
parson. I'll repent. Oh, bring she back, parson! I'll repent. For
God's sake, parson!" It may be that despair gave her cunning--I do not
know. The deception was not beyond her: she had been converted
twice--she was used to the forms as practised in those days at Twist
Tickle. She wanted her child, poor woman! and her mind was clouded
with fear: she is not to be called evil for the trick. Nor is Parson
Lute to be blamed for following earnestly all that she said--praying,
all the while, that the issue might be her salvation. She had a
calculating eye on the face of Parson Lute. "I believe!" she cried,
watching him closely for some sign of relenting. "Help thou my
unbelief." The parson's face softened. "Save me!" she whispered,
exhausted. "Save my soul! I repent. Save my soul!" She seemed now to
summon all her strength, for the parson had not yet called back the
child. "Praise God!" she screamed, seeking now beyond doubt to
persuade him of her salvation. "I repent! I'm saved! I'm saved!"

"Praise God!" Parson Lute shouted.

Elizabeth swayed--threw up her hands--fell back dead.

"I tol' you so," said Aunt Esther, grimly.

XIV

THE TWENTY-THIRD PSALM

Faith, but 'twas a bitter night! Men were drowning on our coast--going
to death in the wreck of schooners. The sea broke in unmasked assault
upon the great rocks of Whisper Cove; the gale worried the cottage on
the cliff. But 'twas warm in the kitchen: the women had kept the fire
for the cup o' tea to follow the event; 'twas warm, and the lamp made
light and shadow, and the kettle bubbled and puffed, the wood
crackled, the fire snored and glowed, all serenely, in disregard of
death, as though no mystery had come to appal the souls of us.

My uncle had Judith on his knee.

"I'm not able," she sobbed.

"An' ye'll not try?" he besought. "Ye'll not even try?"

We were alone: the women were employed in the other room; the
parson paced the floor, unheeding, his yellow teeth fretting his
finger-nails, his lean lips moving in some thankful communicat