Presently persons who desired the prayers of the congregation were requested to rise and make known their wish. It might be feared that some of the compliances did not tend to preserve domestic harmony. One woman asked prayers for her husband, whose heart, she stated, was not in his religion, and the defiant contradiction expressed in the face of a man seated beside her suggested that she had thus publicly made reprisal for sundry conjugal differences. Nevertheless, old Brother Sims said, “Amen!” Mrs. Sayles rose and begged prayers for the “headin’ young folks o’ the kentry, that they’d be guided by thar elders, an’ not trest thar own green jedgmints, an’ finally be led ter grace.” And all the old people said, heartily, “Amen!” Many turned to look at Alethea, whose face had become a delicate pink. And suddenly Peter Rood rose. “I want the prayers o’ the godly,” he said, now and then casting a hasty glance at Brother Sims, who stood listening intently, his chin in the air, his hands arrested in the gesture of clapping, “fur light ter my steps. I reckon I’m a backslider, fur I git no light when I pray. It’s all dark,—mighty dark!” His voice trembled. He was beginning to lose his self-control. “My actions tarrify me! I ’lowed wunst I hed fund grace, but in trouble I hev no helper.” The lightnings flashed once more. The swift illumination seemed to blanch his swarthy face, and lighted his uplifted black eyes with a transient gleam. “I’m in sin an’ great mis’ry. I hev done wrong.” He was about to sit down. “Make reparation, brother, an’ free yer soul in prayer,” said the old man. “I can’t!” he cried, shrilly. “I’m ’feard! I’m ’feard o’ my life. I wouldn’t hev done sech ’ceptin’ I war drunk,—drunk with liquor an’ drunk with spite.” He felt that he was saying too much. He sat down, biting his lip till the blood started. Then he rose and faltered, “I want yer prayers fur light.” “Amen!” said Brother Sims. Rood had recovered himself abruptly. He was looking about with furtive sharpness through the congregation, seeking to gauge the effect of what he had said when under the strong spell of religious excitement that had swayed the crowd. Fearful as he was, he detected only curiosity, interest, nothing more marked; for in the rhetoric of frenzied repentance these good men often apply to themselves language that seriously entertained could only grace an indictment. The rain had ceased; the quiet without seemed to conduce to a calmer spirit within. The fervor of the meeting had spent itself. Only a few of the brethren were “workin’” with Ben Doaks; his face was troubled and perplexed, his anxious eyes turned from one to another. “Can’t ye feel ye air jes’ a wuthless worm a-crawlin’ round the throne o’ grace? Can’t ye feel that only mercy kin save ye?—fur ye richly desarve damnation.” “Laws-a-massy, naw,” said poor, candid Ben, greatly harried. “I think mighty well o’ myself!”