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“Nome, you is wrong,” he corrected her gently. “You is wrong there. ‘Ca’se likewise an’ furthermo’ I also is been off my feed–ain’t that a sign to you?”

“Sign of a tapeworm, I ‘spects.”

“Don’t say that, please, Ma’am,” he humbly pleaded. “You speakin’ in sich a way meks me ‘most discouraged to confide in you whut I aims to confide in you. I’m tellin’ it to you the fust one, too. ‘Tain’t nary ‘nother soul heared it. Aunt Dilsey, I’s grateful to you in my heart, honest I is, fur runnin’ me ‘way frum yore presence yere jes’ a little w’ile ago. You never knowed it at the time–I didn’t s’picion it also neither–but you done me a favor. ‘Ca’se settin’ out yonder in the stable all alone and ponderin’ deep, all of a sudden somethin’ jes’ come right over me an’ I knowed whut’s been the matter wid me lately. Aunt Dilsey, I’s felt the quickenin’ tech.”

“Better fur you ef somebody made you feel de quickenin’ buggy-whup.”

He disregarded the brutal suggestion.

“Yessum, I’s felt the quickenin’ tech. Ez you doubtless full well knows, I ain’t been ‘tendin’ much ‘pon the big revival. But even so–even an’ evermo’ so–the influence frum it done stretch fo’th its hand an’ reach me. I ain’t sayin’ I’s plum won over yit, but ‘way down deep insides of me I’s stirred–yessum, tha’s the word–stirred. I ain’t sayin’ the spirit of grace is actually th’owed me, but I feel prone to say I thinks it’s fixin’ to rassle wid me. I ain’t sayin’ I stands convicted, but I aims to be a searcher fur the truth; I aims to stop, look, an’ lissen. I ain’t sayin’–” He broke off, the floods of his imagery dammed by the skeptical eye which swept him; then made a lame conclusion, “Tha’s whut I sez, Ma’am, to you in strict confidences.”

“Den lemme say somethin’ to you. You figgers it’s salvation you needs, huh? I figgers it’s vermifuge. Oh, I knows you, boy–I knows you f’um de grass-roots up. Still an’ wid all dat, ef you should crave to mend yo’ ways–an’ de Heavens above knows dey kin stand a heap of mendin’!–I ain’t gwine be de one to hender you.”

Against her better judgment her tone was softening. For she gave her allegiance unrestrainedly to the doctrine preached at Emmanuel Chapel. She was one of its stanch pillows. Indeed, it might be said of her that she was one of its plumpest bolsters; and Jeff, although admittedly of no religious persuasion, had grown up in the shadow of a differing creed. The winning over of the black ram of another fold would be a greater victory than the reclamation of any wandering sheep who had been reared as a true believer.

“Well, boy,” she went on, in this new mood, “let us hope an’ pray dat in yore case dey’s yit hope. De ways of de Almighty is pas’ findin’ out. Fur do not de Scriptures say dey’s room fur both man an’ beast?–de maid servant an’ de man servant, de ox an’ de ass, dey all may enter in? So dey mout be a skimsy, bare chanct fur sech even ez you is. One thing shore–ef dey’s ary grain of contritefulness in yore soul, trust de Sin Killer to fetch it fo’th to de light of day. He’s de ole fambly doctor w’en it come to dat kind of sickness. You go to dat tabernickle to-night an’ you keep on goin’ an’ le’s see whut come to pass…. Jeffy, dey’s a little mossil of cold peach cobbler lef over f’um dinner yistiddy settin’ up yonder amongst de shelfs of my cu’board!”

“Nome, thank you,” said Jeff. “The emotions w’ich is in me seems lak they ain’t left me no room fur nothin’ else. Seems lak I can’t git my mind on vittles yit. But I shore aims to be at the tabernickle to-night, Aunt Dilsey–I means, Sist’ Dilsey. You jes’ watch me. Tha’s all I asts of you now–jes’ watch me!”