boy. "I cayn't onderstand how you can hold out, Tom-Jeff. I've come
thoo', praise the Lord! but I jest natchelly _got_ to have stars for my
crown. You say you'll go 'long with me, Tom-Jeff: say it ag'in, and mean
it."

Again the doubtful-curious look came into Thomas Jefferson's gray eyes,
and he would not commit himself. Nevertheless, one point was safely
established, and it was a point gained: the miraculous thing called
conversion was beyond question real in Scrap's case. He turned to lead
the way between the wagons. The lamps were lighted in the church and the
people were filling the benches, while the choir gathered around the
tuneless little cottage organ to practise the hymns.

"I--I'm studyin' about it some, Scrap," he confessed, half angry with
himself that the admission sent the blood to his cheeks. "Let's go in."

It was admitted on all sides that Brother Crafts was a powerful
preacher. Other men had wrestled mightily in Zoar, but none to such
heart-shaking purpose. When he expatiated on the ineffable glories of
Heaven and the joys of the redeemed, which was not too often, the
reflection of the celestial effulgences could be seen rippling like
sunshine on the sea of faces spreading away from the shore of the pulpit
steps. When he spoke of hell and its terrors, which was frequently and
with thrilling descriptive, even so hardened a scoffer as Japheth
Pettigrass was wont to declare that you could hear the crackling of the
flames and the cries of the doomed.

The opening exercises were over--the Bible reading, the long,
impassioned prayer, the hymn singing--and the preacher stood up in a
hush that could be felt, and stepped forward to the small desk which