chickens against Mrs. Jones's tomato-vines; she noticed, too, that
Mrs. Brenning's hat had become askew, which gave her a queer,
unsuitable, rakish look. Yet Missy didn't feel like laughing. She
felt like closing her eyes and waiting to be born anew. But, before
closing her eyes, she sent a swift glance up at the choir platform.
Polly Currier was still up there, looking very placid as she sang
with the rest of the choir. They were singing a rollicking tune. She
listened--

"Pull for the shore, sailor! Pull for the shore! Leave the poor old
strangled wretch, and pull for the shore!"

Who was the old strangled wretch? A sinner, doubtless. Ah, the world
was full of sin. She looked again at Polly. Polly's placidity was
reassuring; evidently she was not a sinner. But it was time to close
her eyes. However, before doing so, she sent a swift upward glance
toward the preacher. He had a look on his face as though an electric
light had been turned on just inside. He was praying fervently for
God's grace upon "these Thy repentant creatures." Missy shut her
eyes, repented violently, and awaited the miracle. What would
happen? How would it feel, when her soul was born anew? Surely it
must be time. She waited and waited, while her limbs grew numb and
her soul continued to quiver and stretch up. But in vain; she
somehow didn't feel the grace of God nearly as much as last Sunday
when the Presbyterian choir was singing "Asleep in Jesus," while the
sun shone divinely through the stained-glass window.

She felt cheated and very sad when, at last, the preacher bade the
repentant ones stand up again. Evidently she hadn't repented hard
enough. Very soberly she walked back to the pew and took her place