“I want that you all should know just how I feel about it,” continued Mrs. Willis. “I believe in doing what’s right yourself and not excusing them that does wrong. I don’t believe in having people like Patience Appleby in this church; and she don’t come in while _I’m_ in, neither. That’s all I got to say. I want that you all should understand plain that her coming in means my going out.” Mrs. Willis sat down, well satisfied. She saw that she had produced a profound sensation. Every eye turned to the minister with a look that said, plainly—“What have you to say to _that_?” But the miserable man had not a word to say to it. He sat helplessly stroking his whiskers, trying to avoid the eyes of both Mrs. Wincoop and Mrs. Willis. At last Deacon Berry said—“Why, sister Willis, I think if a body repents and wants to do better, the church ’ad ort to help ’em. That’s what churches are for.” Mrs. Willis cleared her throat. “I don’t consider that a body’s repented, Deacon Berry, tell he confesses-up. Patience Appleby’s never done that to this day. When she does, I’m willing to take her into this church.” “Brothers and sisters,” said Mrs. Wincoop, in a voice that held a kind of cautious triumph, “I fergot to state that Patience Appleby reckoned mebbe somebody ’u’d think she’d ort to confess before she come into the church; and she wanted I should ask the meeting to a’point Mis’ Willis a committee o’ one fer her to confess up to. Patience reckoned if she could satisfy Mis’ Willis, ev’rybody else ’u’d be satisfied.” “Why—yes,” cried the minister, with cheerful eagerness. “That’s all right—bless the Lord!” he added, in that jaunty tone with which so many ministers daily insult our God. “I know Mrs. Willis and Patience will be able to smooth over all difficulties. I think we may now adjourn.” “Whatever did she do that fer?” said Mrs. Willis, following the lantern homeward. “She’s got something in her mind, _I_ know, or she’d never want me a’p’inted. Father, what made you pull my gethers out? D’you think you could make me set down when I’d once made up my mind to stand up? You’d ought to know me better by this time. This is my secon’-best dress, and I’ve only wore it two winters—and now look at all these gethers tore right out!” “You hadn’t ought to get up and make a fool o’ yourself, mother. You’d best leave Patience Appleby be.” “You’d ort to talk about anybody a-making a fool o’ hisself! After you a-pulling my gethers clean out o’ the band—right in meeting! You’d ort to tell me I’d best leave Patience Appleby be! I don’t mean to leave her be. I mean to let her know she can’t ac’ scandalous, and then set herself up as being as good’s church folks and Christians. _I’ll_ give her her come-uppings!”