dy tried to dissuade the Hellgumists from going to Jerusalem.
And toward the last, it seemed as though the very hills and vales
echoed the plea, "Do not go! Do not go!"

Even the country gentlemen did their best to get the peasants to
abandon the idea. The bailiff, the judge, and the councilmen gave
them no peace; they asked them how they could feel sure that these
Americans were not imposters; for they had no way of knowing what
sort of folk they would be getting in with. In that far Eastern
country there was neither law nor order; there one was always in
danger of falling into the hands of brigands. Besides, there were
no decent roads in that land--all their goods would have to be
transported by means of pack-horses, as in the wild forests up
North.

The doctor told them they would never be able to stand the climate;
that Jerusalem was full of smallpox and malignant fevers; they were
going away only to die.

The Hellgumists answered that they knew all this, and it was for
that very reason they were going. They were going there in order to
fight the smallpox and the fevers, to build roads and to till the
soil. God's country should no longer lie waste; they would transform
it into a paradise. And no one was able to turn them from their
purpose.

Down in the village lived an old lady, the widow of the Dean. She
was very, very old! She occupied a large chamber above the post
office, just across the street from the church, where she had lived
since the death of her husband.

Some of the more well-to-do peasant women had always made it a rule
to drop in to see the old lady on Sundays, before the service, and
bring her some freshly baked bread, a pat of butter, or a can of
milk. On these occasions she would always have the coffee pot put
on the fire the moment they came in, and the one who could shout
the loudest always talked with her, for she was frightfully deaf.
Of course they would try to tell her about everything that had
happened during the week, but they could never be certain as to how
much she heard of what was told her.

She never left her room, and there were times when it seemed as if
people had forgotten her entirely. Then some one, in passing, would
see her old face back of the draped white curtains at the window,
and think: "I must not forget her in her loneliness; to-morrow when
we have killed the calf, I'll run in to see her, and take her a bit
of fresh meat."

No one could find out just how much