n the
long body of some farm wagon was placed on runners, and boys and
girls--young men and women, they almost thought themselves--were packed
in like sardines. Something like self-reproach smote Holcroft even
now, remembering how he had allowed his fancy much latitude at this
period, paying attention to more than one girl besides Bessie, and
painfully undecided which he liked best.

Then had come the memorable year which had opened with a protracted
meeting. He and Bessie Jones had passed under conviction at the same
time, and on the same evening had gone forward to the anxious seat.
From the way in which she sobbed, one might have supposed that the
good, simple-hearted girl had terrible burdens on her conscience; but
she soon found hope, and her tears gave place to smiles. Holcroft, on
the contrary, was terribly cast down and unable to find relief. He
felt that he had much more to answer for than Bessie; he accused
himself of having been a rather coarse, vulgar boy; he had made fun of
sacred things in that very meeting house more times than he liked to
think of, and now for some reason could think of nothing else.

He could not shed tears or get up much emotion; neither could he rid
himself of the dull weight at heart. The minister, the brethren and
sisters, prayed for him and over him, but nothing removed his terrible
inertia. He became a familiar form on the anxious seat for there was a
dogged persistence in his nature which prevented him from giving up;
but at the close of each meeting he went home in a state of deeper
dejection. Sometimes, in returning, he was Bessie Jones' escort, and
her happiness added to his gall and bitterness. One moonlight night
they stopped under the shadow of a pine near her father's door, and
talked over the matter a few moments before parting. Bessie was full
of sympathy which she hardly knew how to express. Unconsciously, in
her earnestness--how well he remembered the act!--she laid her hand on
his arm as she said, "James, I guess I know what's the matter with you.
In all your seeking you are thinking only of yourself--how bad you've
been and all that. I wouldn't think of myself and what I was any more,
if I was you. You aint so awful bad, James, that I'd turn a cold
shoulder to you; but you might think I was doing just that if ye stayed
away from me and kept saying to yourself, 'I aint fit to speak to
Bessie Jones.'"

Her face had looked sweet and compassionate, and her t