"Mammy says we can wear our Sunday dresses," said the fair-haired one weakly.
Tim was drifting slowly, but surely, toward a hole in the back fence.
"Yous can stay, if ye wanter, but you bet I don't!" He wagged his head ominously.
"Why, what'll he do?" The black-haired twin balanced herself miraculously on the edge of the water-barrel and stared.
"He'll ast ye"—Tim's voice was sepulchral—"he'll ast ye if ye're saved."
"If ye're what?" cried the twins, in alarm.
"If ye're saved. Preachers always does that. It means if ye're goin' to the bad place."
"Well, I ain't," said the black-headed twin stoutly.
"Me neither," promptly echoed her sister.
Their brother regarded them darkly. "You can't never tell," he answered ominously. "You'd better look out, when the minister's 'round. He ast Billy Winters if he'd got his soul saved."