“Look a heer, Sue Dawson,” she said, getting her breath fast, “yo’re a older woman an’ me, an’ I’ve got due respect fer age an’ a gray head, but John Westerfelt is my friend, an’ is a-visitin’ of me ‘n’ Luke at present.  You are welcome in my house ef you’ll behave yorese’f decent, but you cayn’t come under my roof to goad him to desperation.  Now I’ve said my say.  Thar’s the door ef you dare open yore mouth agin.  Thar ain’t a speck o’ Christian sperit in you.  I’m ashamed to call you neighbor.”

With an expression of mingled anger and fear in her face, Mrs. Dawson looked at her hostess, and without a word rose stiffly and went to the bed, on which lay her shawl, carpet-bag, and bonnet.  Her face was to the wall as she drew her bonnet on and began to tie the strings.

“I’ll go out the back way,” whispered Westerfelt to Mrs. Bradley; “for God’s sake, don’t let her go!”

“All right,” promised Mrs. Bradley; “go on.  I’ll make ’er stay, I reckon, but she’s as stubborn as a mule.”

He went through the kitchen, round the house, and out at the gate.  He stopped, leaned against the fence, and watched the two women through the window.  Mrs. Dawson had put on her shawl.  She held her bag in front of her, and stood in the centre of the room.  Mrs. Bradley leaned against the mantel-piece.  Their lips moved, and Mrs. Dawson was gesticulating furiously, but he could not hear their voices.  Suddenly Mrs. Bradley took the bag from the old woman and put it on the bed.  Then she untied Mrs. Dawson’s bonnet-strings, took off the bonnet and shawl, and drew her back to the fire.  They stood talking for a moment, then sat down together.  Mrs. Bradley, holding the shawl and bonnet in her lap, put her arm round the old woman.  Mrs. Dawson began fumbling in the pocket of her dress.  She got out her handkerchief and held it to her face, then Mrs. Bradley began to wipe her own eyes on the corner of her apron.

“My God!” groaned Westerfelt, as he turned away, “this is more than I can bear!”

The next day was Sunday.  It was as bright and balmy as spring.  Westerfelt slept late.  When he went in to breakfast Mrs. Bradley told him that Mrs. Dawson was out at the barn with Luke.  They all intended to go to camp-meeting that day, she said.  A revival had been going on at the meeting-house for the past week, and the congregation had increased so much that the little building would no longer hold the people.  It had, therefore, been announced that the Sunday service would be held at Stone Hill Camp-ground, two miles from the village on the most picturesque of the Cohutta Valley roads.

As Westerfelt went down to the stable after breakfast he saw wagons, hacks, and old-fashioned carriages standing at nearly every gate on the street.  Washburn and a colored boy, Jake, were at the stable busy washing and oiling the wheels of vehicles and currying horses.

“I wus jest about to send up to you,” was Washburn’s greeting.  “Turnouts are at a premium to-day.  I didn’t know whether to let out yore own hoss an’ buggy or not; two or three fellers that want to take the’r girls are offerin’ any price fer some’n to ride in.”