hat has happened?" he asked, when the red flames were rolling
up from the heap of split pine under the logs.

"It's about Mis' Dawson," announced Mrs. Bradley, as she sank into a
big chair and began to unpin her shawl. "She's got religion!"

"You don't mean it!"

"Yes, an' I'm what give it to her--me, an' nobody else. I'm a purty
thing to be talkin' that way, but it's the livin' truth. I caused it.
When I seed her git up an' go acrost to you and drive you clean off, I
got so mad I could a-choked her. I wus sittin' by Brother Tim
Mitchell. You don't know 'im, I reckon, but he's the biggest bull-dog
preacher 'at ever give out a hymn. He's a ugly customer, not more'n
thirty, but he's consecrated, an' had ruther rake a sinner over the
coals of repentance 'an eat fried chicken, an' he's a Methodist
preacher, too. He's nearly six foot an' a half high an' as slim as a
splinter; he lets his hair run long an' curls it some. He's as dark as
a Spaniard, an' his face shines like he eats too much grease an' sweats
it out through the pores uv his skin.

"Well, he seed me a-lookin' at Mis' Dawson, when she went to devil you,
an' he bent over to me an' sez he: 'Sister Bradley, what ails that
woman anyhow?'

"'What ails her?' sez I. 'What'd you ax that fer, Brother Tim?'

"'She don't do nat'ral,' sez he. 'I've been talkin' to 'er about 'er
speritual welfare ever sence I set down heer, an' she won't say one
word. She ain't a bit like the gineral run o' old women; an' what's
more, she hain't doin' one bit o' exhortin' that I kin see. I don't
know whether she's in the vineyard or not.'

"Then, John Westerfelt, I jest come out an' tol' 'im about 'er. Of
course I never give no names; but I made 'im see what ailed her, an' I
never seed a man look so interested. 'Sister Bradley,' sez he, rubbin'
his hands, when I got through, 'I'm going to wade in an' get hold o'
that woman's soul.'

"'Well,' sez I, 'you may have to wade purty fur an' dive consider'ble,
fer she's about the toughest snag you ever struck.'

"'I'm a-goin' to have 'er _soul_,' sez he, an' he laughed. 'I'd ruther
make that sort of a struggle for the Lord 'an to put out a burnin'
house, ur keep a pizen snake frum bitin' a baby. You watch my smoke.
Is she a-comin' back heer?'

"'I kin bring 'er back,' sez I, 'fer right this minute I'd ruther see
that woman a shoutin' convert 'n to have a meal sack full o' gold
dollars.'

"'Well,' sez he, sorter jokin' li