to stay home."

"Me?" gasped Mrs. Kimper. "Me?--in meetin'? Goodness, deacon, it gives
me the conniptions to think of it! Besides,"--here she dragged her
scanty clothing about her more closely,--"I ain't fit to be seen among
decent folks."

"Clothes don't count for anything in the house of the Lord," said the
deacon, stoutly, though he knew he was lying. "Meeting begins at
half-past seven, and the sun's down now."

"Nan," whispered Sam, "come along. You can slip in a back seat an'
nobody'll see nothin' but your face. Stand by me, Nan: I'm your
husband. Stand by me, so I can stand by my only friend."

"Deacon ain't no friend o' yourn," whispered the trembling woman in
reply.

"I'm not talkin' about the deacon, Nan. Don't, go back on me. You're my
wife, Nan; you don't know what that means to me now,--you reelly
don't."

Mrs. Kimper stared, then she almost smiled.

"I mean it, Nan," whispered the man.

Mrs. Kimper rummaged for a moment in the drawers of a dilapidated
bureau, and finally folded a red handkerchief and tied it over her
head.