small, fair, well-preserved woman, this mother of the boy of twelve,
with light brown hair graying a little at the temples, and eyes
remindful of vigils, of fervent beseeching, of mighty wrestlings against
principalities and powers and the rulers of the darkness of this world.

"You, Thomas Jefferson," she said gently, but speaking as one having
authority, "you'd better be studying your Sunday lesson than sitting
there doing nothing."

"Yes'm," said the boy, but he made no move other than to hug his knees a
little closer. He wished his mother would stop calling him "Thomas
Jefferson." To be sure, it was his name, or at least two-thirds of it;
but he liked the "Buddy" of his father, or the "Tom-Jeff" of other
people a vast deal better.

Further, the thought of studying Sunday lessons begot rebellion. At
times, as during those soul-stirring revival weeks, now seemingly
receding into a far-away past, he had moments of yearning to be wholly
sanctified. But the miracle of transformation which he had confidently
expected as the result of his "coming through" was still unwrought. When
John Bates or Simeon Cantrell undertook to bully him, as aforetime,
there was the same intoxicating experience of all the visible world
going blood-red before his eyes--the same sinful desire to slay them,
one or both. And as for Sunday lessons on a day when all outdoors was
beckoning--

He stole a glance at the open window of the living-room. His mother had
gone about her housework, and he could hear her singing softly, as
befitted the still, warm day: