The Quickening | Page 2

doors and windows and
was out among the unhitched teams looking for Scrap Pendry, who had
been one of a score to go forward for prayers the night before. So it
happened that he overheard the flat-chested mountaineer's tribute to his
mother. It warmed him generously; but there was a boyish scowl for
Japheth Pettigrass. What had the horse-trader been saying to make it
needful for Bill Layne to speak up as his mother's defender? Thomas

Jefferson recorded a black mark against Pettigrass's name, and went on
to search for Scrap.
"What you hiding for?" he demanded, when the newly-made convert
was discovered skulking in the dusky shadows of the pines beyond the
farthest outlying wagon.
"I ain't hidin'," was the half-defiant answer.
"You're a liar," said Thomas Jefferson coolly, ducking skilfully to
escape the consequences.
But there were no consequences. Young Pendry's heavy face flushed a
dull red,--that could be seen even in the growing dusk,--but he made no
move retaliatory. Thomas Jefferson walked slowly around him, wary as
a wild creature of the wood, and to the full as curious. Then he stuck
out his hand awkwardly.
"I only meant it 'over the left,' Scrap, hope to die," he said. "I allowed
I'd just like to know for sure if what you done last night made any
difference."
Scrap was silent, glibness of tongue not being among the gifts of the
East Tennessee landward bred. But he grasped the out-thrust hand
heartily and crushed it forgivingly.
"Come on out where the folks are," urged Thomas Jefferson. "Sim
Cantrell and the other fellows are allowin' you're afeard."
"I ain't afeard," denied the convert.
"No; but you're sort o' 'shamed, and that's about the same thing, I
reckon. Come on out; I'll go 'long with you."
Then spake the new-born love in the heart of the big, rough, country
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
served for a pulpit.
He was a tall man, thin and erect, with a sallow, beardless face
unrelieved by any line of mobility, but redeemed and almost glorified
by the deep-set, eager, burning eyes. He had a way of bending to his
audience when he spoke, with one long arm crooked behind him and
the other extended to mark the sentences with a pointing finger, as if to
remove the final trace of impersonality; to break down the last of the
barriers of reserve which might be thrown up by the impenitent heart.
The hush remained unbroken till he announced his text in a voice that

rang like an alarm-bell pealed in the dead of night. There are voices and
voices, but only now and then one which is pitched in the key of the
spheral harmonies. When the Reverend Silas hurled out the Baptist's
words, _Repent ye: for the kingdom of heaven is at hand!_ the
responsive thrill from the packed benches was like the sympathetic
vibration of harp-strings answering a trumpet blast.
The thin, large-jointed hand went up for silence, as if there could be a
silence more profound than that which already hung on his word. Then
he began slowly, and in