"Get up," she urged excitedly; "go to the pew, Ishmael. Confess the
Lard, de 'ee hear? You'm got to confess the Lard."

But Ishmael, sick with fear, was crouching down, trying to shield both
eyes and ears at the same time with his enfolding arms. He shrieked as
Annie touched him.

"Go to wance," she commanded. "You heard what the minister said? You'll
die and go to hell unless you repent. Get up and be saved ...;" and she
drew him to his feet, his struggles unavailing against her.

But at sight of that sinister pew, choked with its weeping throng of
ugly people, Ishmael went distraught with fear. He felt if he were put
in that place of dread he would die at once. He fought Annie's grasp for
a moment, screaming wildly, then collapsed in a little heap against her.

Annie thought he was dead, and that her offering, like Cain's, had
proved unacceptable on high. She drew back in horror, her hands dabbing
aimlessly from her own face to the sides of the pew. It was another
woman, a comfortable creature who had remained very unaffected
throughout the service, who gathered Ishmael up and forced her way out
with him in her arms.

As she laid him on the grass outside a burst of praise came through the
open door of the chapel; the scene of fear was over, and the penitents,
confident of their salvation, were rejoicing together. All was peace and
happiness, but Ishmael lay, his head upon the steep lap of the stranger,
quite unaware that the Lord was appeased at last.