there was a native dignity about
Judith Barrier that kept even rural gossip at bay. This morning, however,
when Elder Drane gave her the customary invitation to walk down there for
a drink, she refused, and all during the first service the widower had
sat tall and reproachful on the men's side and reminded her of past
follies. She was aware of his accusing eyes even when she did not look in
his direction, and uncomfortably aware too that others saw what she saw.

Throughout the pleasant picnic meal, shared with its group of neighbours,
the sight of Andy and Jeff with Cliantha and Pendrilla aggravated a dull
pain which dragged always in her heart, and when dinner was over and they
had packed the basket once more, and set it in the back of the waggon,
she left them, to wander by herself on the farther side of Lost Creek,
sitting down finally in the shade of a great sourwood, and looking
moodily at the water. All afternoon she sat there wrapt in her own
emotions, forgetful of time and place. The congregation straggled back
into the little log church, and the second service was begun. The
preacher's voice came floating out to her softened by distance, and with
it the sound of singing; as the meeting drew to its close an occasional
more vociferous "Amen!" or "Glory!" or "Praise God!" made itself heard.
The sun was beginning to slant well from the west when she got suddenly
to her feet with the startled realisation that afternoon preaching was
over, the people were pouring from the church door, streaming across the
green toward the baptising pool. They were in the middle of a hymn.

"Oh, wanderer return--return,"

came their musical tones across the water. The grey-haired old preacher
was in the lead, his black coat blowing about him, the congregation
spreading out fan-wise as they followed after, Andy and Jeff arm in arm,
the half-dozen others who were to be baptised walking with them.

Her fretted, pining spirit had no appreciation left for the appeal of the
picture. She gazed, and looked away, and groaned. "Oh, wanderer return,"
they sang--almost her heart could not bear the words.

She sighed. Ought she to cross the foot-log and be with them when the
boys were dipped? But while she hesitated the singers struck up a
different hymn, a louder, more militant strain. Brother Bohannon was at
the water; he was wading in; he was up to his knees now--up to his
waist.

"Send 'em in, Brother Drane," she heard him call. "Thi