"Did that heathen blacksmith hold out?" says I, so interested in the cindery wretch that I passed over his comments about my perversity.
"Hold out!" says he; "I saw him at a camp-meeting three years after, and heard him tell the story with his own lips. Brother Blank himself was sitting on the speaker's stand, and the blacksmith pointed him out to the people, and called on him to say if it was not his prayers that had snatched him as a brand from the burning.
"Brother Blank got up and walked with a lazy motion down the platform. Putting both hands behind him he smiled benignly down on the agitated face of his old enemy. Then he looked around on the congregation, and spoke:
"'Yes,' says he, 'I really do believe that I was the humble instrument of mauling some grace into that precious brother's soul.'
"Sisters, that was a glorious moment for Brother Blank; think of it—a human soul turned heavenward in the midst of its wrath; persevere with this one. Leave her not till she is brought to the anxious-seat, and so by regeneration to membership with the church."
"But I am a Church member," says I.
"A Church member?" says the man with spectacles.
"Certainly," says I.
"In good standing?" says the woman, dropping her underlip.
"A missionary from one of the first societies in the world," says I, with becoming dignity.