“I slid out ‘twixt the benches on one side, an’ went round to the stand an’ spoke to Brother Quagmire, who wus leadin’; he’s the big, white-headed man they say looks like Moody an’ has the scalps o’ more sinners in ‘is belt than any man on the war-path.  When I tol’ ’im what wus up, he giggled an’ said, ’God bless ‘im, Mitch is a wheel-hoss!’ an’ with that he busted out singin’ ’How firm a foundation, ye saints o’ the Lord,’ an’ he waved his hands up an’ down like a buzzard’s wings, an’ went up our aisle, a-clappin’ an’ singin’ to beat the Dutch.  I never seed the like before.  I wusn’t cryin’ fer the same reason ’at the rest of ’em wus, but the tears wus jest a-streamin’ down my face like a leaky well-bucket, fer I believed the thing wus goin’ to work, an’ I wus thinkin’ how glad you’d be.  She looked up an’ seed my face an’ busted out cryin’.  Then Brother Mitchell ketched ’er up in his arms an’ yelled:  ‘You little, ol’, triflin’ thing, I’m a-gwine to put you in the arms o’ yore Redeemer,’ an’ then I jest couldn’t help cryin’.  Luke seed me give way an’ sneeked off to water the hosses.  John, she was the happiest creetur God ever made.  She laid ’er old bare head in my lap an’ cried like a baby.  I never railly loved ’er before, but I did then.  Somehow she seemed to be my own mother come back to life ag’in.  But she didn’t shout an’ take on like the rest.  She jest cried an’ cried an’ had the youngest look on ’er face I ever seed on a ol’ person.  Once she said, sez she, ‘I’m goin’ back to put a grave-rock over Jasper’s remains,’ an’ then I remembered folks said she wus too stingy to do that when Dawson died.  She looked like she wanted to talk about you, but I didn’t feel called on to fetch up the subject.  After awhile she went out to the wagon whar her carpet-bag wus, an’ got up in one o’ the cheers an’ begun to stitch on some’n.  I wus puzzled right sharp, fer it wus a Sunday, an’ it looked like a funny thing fer a body to do, but atter awhile she come to me with some’n wrapped up in a paper—­I’ll show it to you in a minute—­an’ give it to me.  It was a pair uv her best knit wool socks.  You know some old women think it’s a mark o’ great respect to give a pair o’ socks to anybody that they’ve knit the’rselves.

“‘I want you to take the socks,’ sez she, ‘an’ give ’em to the right person,’ sez she, awful bashful like.  You know, John, I don’t believe all the religion this side o’ the burnin’ lake kin make some folks beg a body’s pardon, not ef they wanted to wuss than anything on earth.  She is one o’ that sort.  I ’lowed right off ’at the socks wus fer you an’ started to tell ’er how glad you’d be to git ’em when, all at once, I noticed a letter M worked in red wool on ’em.  It was a letter M as plain as anything could be, a big letter M, ‘an’ that throwed me.  Then I thought about Brother Mitchell’s name beginnin’ with a M, an’ so I said, sez I, ’So you want me to give ’em to Brother Mitchell, do you?’ An’ ’en