’at he ever wronged anyway.”  And old Ezry was a-goin’ on, and his eyes a-sparklin’, and a-rubbin’ his hands, he was so excited and tickled over it, ’at Steve and me we jist stood there a-gawkin’ like, tel Bills hisse’f come up and rech out one hand to Steve and one to me; and Steve shuck with him kind o’ oneasy like, and I—­well, sir, I never felt cur’oser in my born days than I did that minute.  The cold chills crep’ over me, and I shuck as ef I had the agur, and I folded my hands behind me and I looked that feller square in the eye, and I tried to speak three or four times afore I could make it, and when I did, my voice wasn’t natchurl—­sounded like a feller a-whisperin’ through a tin horn er somepin’.—­and I says, says I, “You’re a liar,” slow and delibert.  That was all.  His eyes blazed a minute, and drapped; and he turned, ’thout a word, and walked off.  And Ezry says, “He’s in airnest; I know he’s in airnest, er he’d a-never a-tuck that!” And so he went on, tel finally Steve jined in, and betwixt ’em they p’suaded me ’at I was in the wrong and the best thing to do was to make it all up, which I finally did.  And Bills said ’at he’d a-never a-felt jist right ’thout my friendship, far he’d wronged me, he said, and he’d wronged Steve and Mother, too, and he wanted a chance, he said, o’ makin’ things straight agin.

Well, a-goin’ home, I don’t think Steve and me talked o’ nothin’ else but Bills—­how airnest the feller acted ’bout it, and how, ef he wasn’t in airnest he’d a-never a-swallered that ‘lie,’ you see.  That’s what walked my log, far he could a-jist as easy a-knocked me higher ’n Kilgore’s kite as he could to walk away ‘thout a-doin’ of it.

Mother was awful tickled when she heerd about it, far she’d had an idee ’at we’d have trouble afore we got back, and a-gitten home safe, and a-bringin’ the news ‘bout Bills a-jinin’ church and all, tickled her so ‘at she mighty nigh shouted far joy.  You see, Mother was a’ old church-member all her life; and I don’t think she ever missed a sermont er a prayer-meetin’ ’at she could possibly git to—­rain er shine, wet er dry.  When ther was a meetin’ of any kind a-goin’ on, go she would, and nothin’ short o’ sickness in the fambly, er knowin’ nothin’ of it would stop her!  And clean up to her dyin’ day she was a God-fearin’ and consistent Christian ef ther ever was one.  I mind now when she was tuck with her last spell and laid bedfast far eighteen months, she used to tell the preacher, when he ’d come to see her and pray and go on, ’at she could die happy ef she could on’y be with ’em all agin in their love-feasts and revivals.  She was purty low then, and had be’n a-failin’ fast far a day er two; and that day they’d be’n a-holdin’ service at the house.  It was her request, you know, and the neighbers had congergated and was a-prayin’ and a-singin’ her favorite hymns—­one in p’tickler, “God moves in a mysterous way his wunders to p’form,” and ‘bout his “Walkin’ on the sea and a-ridin’