a new earth, when we shell all be clothed in white raimen', an' we
shell play ha'ps of gol', an' walk de golden streets of the New
Jerusalem! That's what been a runnin' thoo my min', w'en I set up in
the pulpit an' sleep under the Wo'd; but I want to ax you, was I
wrong? I want to ax you, was I sinnin'? I want to p'int you right
hyeah to the Wo'd, as it are read out in yo' hyeahin' ter-day, 'Ef he
sleep, he shell do well.'"

The Rev. Elisha ended his sermon amid the smiles and nods and tears of
his congregation. No one had a harsh word for him now, and even
Brother Dyer wiped his eyes and whispered to his next neighbor, "Dat
man sholy did sleep to some pu'pose," although he knew that the dictum
was a deathblow to his own pastoral hopes. The people thronged around
the pastor as he descended from the pulpit, and held his hand as they
had done of yore. One old woman went out, still mumbling under her
breath, "Sleep on, Ed'ards, sleep on."

There were no more church meetings after that, and no tendency to
dismiss the pastor. On the contrary, they gave him a donation party
next week, at which Sister Dicey helped him to receive his guests.




THE INGRATE


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