"But you don't realize what you're doing, sir," remonstrated my uncle; "you fail to realize——"
"I'm doing what no man will prevent," broke in our visitor, and his eye was flashing like the diamond on my finger; "I'm going to preach the Gospel to them, if I get the chance."
"That's all right," began my uncle, "that's all right in its way, but——"
"What's all right in its way?" demanded the Reverend Gordon Laird, his voice quite resounding now.
"That's all right—that Gospel business," explained my uncle, evidently a little at a loss. "The Gospel's all right in its place, but——
"Thank you," gave back Mr. Laird, his strong Scotch lip trembling, "you're very magnanimous, sir."
"But you don't know what you're exposing yourself to," pursued my uncle, apparently deaf to Mr. Laird's retort. "They'll make a fool of you in the pulpit, sir. I'll tell you something, sir. Your sermon will be wasted. We had a man here once—a white man—an evangelist, who expected to move on anyhow. And he tried this little trick of yours—he preached to those coons in their own church one day. And I heard later how they made a fool of him. He preached about folks having to use the means. Good sermon, too, sir. But he was no sooner through than the nigger preacher got up after him—and he said he'd give them a little illustration. Then he told them a ribald yarn, sir, right in the church; said he and his ten-year-old brother were in bed once, and they heard their mother telling their father of some devilment they'd been up to; and the father said he'd go up-stairs when he had finished his supper. Well, this nigger preacher went on to say he got up to pray—but his brother—his brother believed in using the means; and so he said he wouldn't pray, but he'd get up and put something on. That's what he told them, sir—an indecent tale—and the white preacher had to sit and hear it," concluded my uncle, his cheeks burning with indignation.
"I won't give the black brother a chance to illustrate," said Mr. Laird stolidly; "I'll close the service when I'm through." Then he laughed.
"You're trifling with me, sir," said my Uncle Henry chokingly, rising as he spoke. I saw the quick pallor come to the cheek of my Aunt Agnes; as for my mother, she was fairly trembling. As for me—well, I was terrified.
But just at this crisis a remarkable thing occurred. Mr. Laird didn't seem to notice my uncle's movement at all. Indeed, he was not looking in his direction, but sat gazing intently out towards the road that ran down to the river and the bridge. Involuntarily my eyes followed his, and a moment sufficed to reveal the object of his interest. For down the road towards us there crept a fragile figure, swaying unsteadily, overborne with weakness and her heavy load. This too was a negro woman, but cast in finer mould than the stalwart black who had disappeared from view. The one who had just hove in sight, as I could see even at that distance, was a comely creature, more white than black, but yet bearing the fatal hue.