OF HARRIET BLAKE
serried hollows under her still bright eyes—she had aged ten years in those weeks.
"My sister, my poor, suffering, misled sister," began the pastor; but Harriet's eyes flashed ominously.
"If you come to talk to me about that Holy Ghost, I ain't got nothin' to say," she declared, "an' if you think I'm goin' to say another word myself, you're mistaken. I'm a pore sinful woman, but I ain't goin' to be pestered t' death! I'm doin' the best I can 'bout it, an' I've prayed 'bout it, an' Mr. Dent an' a Papist, they both talked 'bout it till I nearly died. I don't see any more sense in it than I did before—not a morsel. So if that's what brought you, you might just as well start back this minute!"
Her reverend guest stared at her dumfounded. Was this the little woman who had pressed his hand at the prayer-meeting and thanked him so piously, so meekly, for such "beautiful prayin'?"
"You are greatly changed since I saw you last. Miss Blake," he said gravely. "Your spirit was
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