“I know it, poor gal,” said Sam; “I know it:  I feel a good deal the same way myself sometimes; but it helps me along an’ stren’thens me up, like, to know that Him that the visitor in jail told me about didn’t have no home a good deal of the time, an’ not overmuch to eat, an’ yet was cheerful like, an’ always on His nerve.  It braces a fellow up to think somebody’s who’s been as bad off as himself has pulled through, an’ not stole nothin’, nor fit with nobody, nor got drunk, but always was lookin’ out for other folks.  Say, Nan, ‘pears to me it’s gettin’ dark all of a sudden—­oh!”

The exclamation was called out by the cause of the sudden darkness, which was no other than Deacon Quickset, who had reached the door-way without being heard.  The deacon’s proportions were generous; those of the door were not.

“Samuel,” said the deacon, “you said this afternoon that you were a changed man, and that you were leaning on a strength greater than your own.  I want to see you make a new start and a fair one; and, as there’s a prayer- and experience-meeting around at the church to-night, I thought I’d come around and tell you that ’twould be a sensible thing to go there and tell what the Lord’s done for you.  It will put you on record, and make you some friends; and you need them, you know.”

Sam was pallid by nature, more so through long confinement, but he looked yet more pale as he stammered,—­

“Me—­speak—­in meetin’?  Before folks that—­that’s always b’longed to the church?”

“You must acknowledge Him, Samuel, if you expect Him to bless you.”

“I hain’t no objections to acknowledgin’ Him, deacon, only—­I’m not the man to talk out much before them that I know is my betters.  I ain’t got the gift o’ gab.  I couldn’t never say much to the fellers in the saloon along around about election-times, though I b’lieved in the party with all my might.”

“It doesn’t take any gift to tell the plain truth,” said the deacon.  “Come along.  Mrs. Kimper, you come too, so Samuel will have no excuse to stay home.”

“Me?” gasped Mrs. Kimper.  “Me?—­in meetin’?  Goodness, deacon, it gives me the conniptions to think of it!  Besides,”—­here she dragged her scanty clothing about her more closely,—­“I ain’t fit to be seen among decent folks.”

“Clothes don’t count for anything in the house of the Lord,” said the deacon, stoutly, though he knew he was lying.  “Meeting begins at half-past seven, and the sun’s down now.”

“Nan,” whispered Sam, “come along.  You can slip in a back seat an’ nobody’ll see nothin’ but your face.  Stand by me, Nan:  I’m your husband.  Stand by me, so I can stand by my only friend.”

“Deacon ain’t no friend o’ yourn,” whispered the trembling woman in reply.

“I’m not talkin’ about the deacon, Nan.  Don’t, go back on me.  You’re my wife, Nan; you don’t know what that means to me now,—­you reelly don’t.”

Mrs. Kimper stared, then she almost smiled.