"Who is that peculiar old woman, that wrinkled and strange-eyed dwarf who sits so near the pulpit every night?"
"We call her old Tildy," Brother Hendricks replied. "She has been a-livin' in this here neighborhood mighty nigh ever sense I kin ricolleck. She's a mighty strange old woman, but I never hearn no harm uv her."
"She may be a good woman," the preacher rejoined, "but she casts a chill over me every time I look at her. Goodbye, Brother Hendricks. Think of me to-night when you get down on your knees."
The preacher sought his temporary home. He lived about a mile from the church, in an old log cabin with one room. Many of the people had offered him a home, but, declining, he declared that he wanted to be alone at night, so that, undisturbed, he could pursue his studies or pray for inspiration.
The hour was late. The preacher had taken down "Fox's Book of Martyrs" and was looking at its thrilling illustrations, when a knock at the door startled him.
"Come in," he called.
Old Tildy stepped into the room, and, quickly closing the door, stood with her back against it. She nodded her head and smiled—a snaggle-tooth grin—and said:
"How air yer, Brother Mayberry?"
"I am very well, I thank you."