“Render, therefore, unto Caesar the things that are Caesar’s and unto God the things that are God’s,” came in clear ringing tones from Draxy’s lips.  Then she proceeded, in simple and gentle words, to set forth the right of every man to his own opinions and convictions; the duty of having earnest convictions and acting up to them in all the affairs of life.  George Thayer and the Deacon looked easier.  Her words seemed, after all, rather a justification of their vehemence of feeling.

But when she came to speak of the “things that are God’s,” her words pierced their very souls.  The only thing that enabled George Thayer to bear up under it at all was, as he afterwards said in the store, keeping his “eyes fixed steady on old Plummer,” “’cause, you know, boys, I never jined the church nor made any kind o’ profession o’ goin’ in for any things o’ God’s, nohow; not but what I’ve often wished I could see my way to:  but sez I to myself, ef he kin stan’ it I kin, an’ so I held out.  But I tell you, boys, I’d rather drive the wust six-hoss team I ever got hold on down Breakneck Hill ’n the dark, than set there agin under thet woman’s eyes, a blazin’ one minnit, ‘n fillin’ with tears the next:  ‘n’ I don’t care what anybody sez; I’m a goin’ to see her an’ tell her that she needn’t be afeard o’ ever hevin to preach to me s’ good s’ by my name, in the meeting ’us agin, by thunder!”

“Suppose the blessed Saviour had come walking through our streets, looking for his children last Wednesday,” said Draxy, “He would say to himself, ’I shall know them, wherever I find them:  I have given them so many badges, they will be sure to be wearing some of them.  They suffer long and are kind; they envy not, vaunt not, are not puffed up:  they are not easily provoked, think no evil, seek not their own, rejoice in the truth; they do not behave unseemly.’  Alas, would the dear Jesus have turned away, believing Himself a stranger and friendless in our village?  Which one of you, dear men, could have sprung forward to take him by the hand?  What terrible silence would have fallen upon you as he looked round on your angry faces!”

Tears were rolling down little Reuby’s face.  Slyly he tried to wipe them away, first with one hand, then with the other, lest his mother should see them.  He had never in his life seen such an expression of suffering on her face.  He had never heard such tones of pain in her voice.  He was sorely perplexed; and the sight of his distressed little face was almost more than the people could bear.

When Draxy stopped speaking, Deacon Plummer did a manly thing.  He rose instantly, and saying “Let us pray,” poured out as humble and contrite a petition for forgiveness as ever went up on wings of faith to Heaven.  It cleared the air, like sweet rain; it rolled a burden off everybody’s heart—­most of all, perhaps, off Draxy’s.

“He is not angry, after all,” she said; “God has laid it to his heart;” and when, at the end of the services, the old man came up to her and held out his hand, she took it in both of hers, and said, “Thank you, dear Deacon Plummer, thank you for helping me so much to-day.  Your prayer was better for the people than my little sermon, a great deal.”  The deacon wrung her hands, but did not speak a word, only stooped and kissed Reuby.