The clear notes of a horn roused everybody for the sunrise prayer-meeting, and Bascom hurried arbor-wards with the others.
“Will Brother Barnard please lead us in prayer?” said the minister, when the first hymn had been sung. Brother Barnard found himself on his knees stumbling over a few familiar phrases; as he went on he gained confidence and his voice became assured. He remarked upon the fact that our days are few and evil.
After a few similar remarks, he got in full swing—time was no object—scraps of forgotten phrases from prayers heard in his youth tumbled forth in picturesque confusion. The hour for prayer-meeting to close had come when he began to pray for the heathen, and this took time of itself. When he had worked around to the sinful and depraved of our own land, everybody would have been impatient, but for the fact that something had happened—something that Bascom could not see, as his eyes were shut. There were some who kept their eyes open when they prayed; these nudged each other excitedly.
“An’ now, Lord,” pleaded Brother Bascom Barnard, pounding the bench in front of him with a clenched fist, “be with all that’s near and dear to them that’s gathered here to worship Thee. Be with them that’s stayed by the stuff—an’ if they’ve stayed away from this blessed place because they’re cold or hard-hearted—as we fear some of ’em has—O Lord, melt their hearts of stone an’ make ’em see that they’re hangin’ over eternal punishment prepared for the devil and his angels.”
“Amen,” said a clear voice, undeniably feminine, which seemed in some unaccountable way to come from the wrong direction.
Bascom was kneeling in the sawdust near the altar, and facing the congregation. The voice came from behind him. Involuntarily he looked back over his shoulder. At the same moment a faint giggle arose somewhere down among the benches where the congregation was kneeling.
An old horse and wagon had drawn up close at the edge of the arbor, and Ma’ Jane, her best bonnet tied under her chin, held the reins. The wagon was piled high with a medley of things pertaining to housekeeping. Three coops of excited chickens topped the pile, the anxious mewing of a cat came from a basket behind the seat, and tied to the back of the wagon were two cows, both intimating that something to eat would be quite acceptable. Under the wagon sat the black puppy, its astonished head to one side as it viewed its master under these unaccustomed circumstances.
Every one had arisen and was looking with might and main. The minister hastily pronounced the benediction.
“I’m sorry to move in on Sunday,” explained Ma’ Jane, “but it’s took me all night to get ready an’ to come. My husband couldn’t help me because he was over to the corners, makin’ a trade with Bink Denny. I warn’t goin’ to stay at home tendin’ the cows and things while camp-meetin’ was goin’ on only six miles away, so I brung ’em all along. ’Long as Bascom’s not here, if some of you would help me unload at Mary Hopkins’s tent, I’d be thankful, an’ you’ll take dinner with me to-day, Brother Wilkins—an’ as many more as can crowd in.”
That dinner in the other end of Mary Hopkins’s tent, was a thing long to be remembered. Bascom crept meekly in after awhile and offered himself at least as a guest. But Ma’ Jane remarked dryly, “My husband not bein’ here, I reckon I can’t take you in—I ain’t makin’ no new acquaintances.” He went away and ate with Miss Mirandy Barr, who had corn-beef and cold potatoes for dinner. Somehow everything was different.