"And," Mr. Dean added, his metallic voice involuntarily softening, "our feelings, Mr. Ward, mustn't interfere with it; they mustn't make us unkind to her soul by slightin' her best good."
"No," John said, still absently, and scarcely listening to his elder,—"no, of course not. But have you seen her, and talked with her, and tried to lead her to the truth? That should be done with the tenderest patience before anything so extreme as Sessioning."
"We ain't," the elder answered significantly, "but I make no doubt she's been reasoned with and prayed with."
"Why, I have not spoken to her," John said, bewildered; "but you have not told me who it is, yet."
"Mr. Ward," said the other solemnly, "if you ain't spoke to her, you've neglected your duty; and if you don't give her poor soul a chance of salvation by bringing her to the Session, you are neglectin' your duty still more. Your church, sir, and the everlastin' happiness of her soul demand that this disease of unbelief should be rooted out. Yes, Brother Ward, if the Jonah in a church was our nearest and dearest—and it don't make no odds—the ship should be saved!"
They both rose; a terrible look was dawning in John Ward's face, and, seeing it, the elder's voice sunk to a hurried whisper as he spoke the last words.
"Who is this woman?" the preacher said hoarsely.
"Sir—sir"—the elder cried, backing towards the door and raising his hands in front of him, "don't look so,—don't look so, sir!"
"Who?" demanded the other.
"I spoke fer the sake of Alfaretta's soul, and fer the sake of them that's heard her say them things about Tom Davis, provin' there wasn't any punishment for sinners. Don't look so, preacher!"