The old, soul-moving, revival hymn was lifted in a triumphant burst of
sound, and Thomas Jefferson's heart began to pound like a trip-hammer.
Was this his call--his one last chance to enter the ark of safety? Just
there was the pinch. A saying of Japheth Pettigrass's, overheard in
Hargis's store on the first day of the meetings, flicked into his mind
and stuck there: "Hit's scare, first, last, and all the time, with
Brother Silas. He knows mighty well that a good bunch o' hickories,
that'll bring the blood every cut, beats a sugar kittle out o' sight
when it comes to fillin' the anxious seat." Was it really his call? Or
was he only scared?

The twelve-year-old brain grappled hardily with the problem which has
thrown many an older wrestler. This he knew: that while he had been
listening with outward ears to the restless champing and stamping of the
horses among the pines, but with his inmost soul to the burning words of
his uncle, the preacher, a great fear had laid hold of him--a fear
mightier than desire or shame, or love or hatred, or any spring of
action known to him. It was lifting him to his feet; it was edging him
past the others on the bench and out into the aisle with the mourners
who were crowding the space in front of the pulpit platform. At the turn
he heard his mother's low-murmured, "I thank Thee, O God!" and saw the
grim, set smile on his father's face. Then he fell on his knees on the
rough-hewn floor, with the tall mountaineer called William Layne on his
right, and on his left a young girl from the choir who was sobbing
softly in her handkerchief.

* * * * *

June being the queen of the months in the valleys of Tennessee, the
revival converts of Little Zoar had the pick and choice of all the