"Me!" she almost shouted. "I ain't no drunkard, ner I never killed anybody, and 'sides, it's Bill yer want ter help, not me."
"The Bible says yer a sinner an' yer need fixin' jus' as bad as Bill," said Jimmie. He knew he was on dangerous ground, but he was determined to push the case as far as he dared. Without giving her a chance to answer, he continued, "Jesus says we're all sinners, an' whosever kin be saved, and that means you."
"I ain't no whoserever, I'm German, and my name's Annabella Cook, and I don't want you nor none of yer friends ter fergit it, sonny."
Jimmie was stumped for a minute. He had asked Morton what to say, but he could not remember the Scripture, so he simply said, "Yer swear, and yer drink, and yer don't pray, and if that ain't sin I don't want a cent. If yer was to die ter-night, you'd want somethin' more than 'em cuss words ter take ter Jesus. Yer Freddie is in heaven and me Pa is there, and yer got too much sense ter miss seein' 'em over there, and 'sides that yer can't never help Bill till yer helped first."
Jimmie had touched a tender chord in Mrs. Cook, and he knew it. She loved her family, and Bill was the apple of her eye. She did not get angry, as Jimmie had feared, but walked along in silence, thinking of what she had heard and how Jimmie had brought it all home to her very door. At last she said, as though speaking to herself, "Yes, I do swear when I git mad, but I don't mean it ten minutes after. No, I guess I ain't ready ter die, but, oh, Jimmie, what made yer mention Freddie? It near kills me." And she began to cry. Freddie had died a few months ago of membranous croup, and his death had caused a great sorrow in the Cook family.
Jimmie slipped his hand into hers, and said, "I'm sorry; but
I'm so bloomin' anxious ter see yer both Christians, 'cause
yer so good ter me. I guess I'll never have no more Ma but you.
Say, how'd yer like der meetin'?"
"It's jus' fine," said Mrs. Cook, glad to change the subject.
"I'm goin' agin ter-morrow night."
Bill was all tucked away in bed when Mrs. Cook got home. Dave had put him to bed. The doctor had given him a powder to quiet him.
After the children were asleep Mrs. Cook sat alone thinking of the night's happenings. The market clock struck twelve before she came to herself and thought of going to bed.
"O God, I can't see it; I can't see it," she cried; "but I want ter. I can't see it; I can't see it that way; but I want ter."