Charity spread her thin black fingers over the keys of the melodeon. Draper erected his bulk in the chancel and began lining out the first hymn: “Shall We Gather at the River?” Woodie’s hour was on him, and Miss Jinny hadn’t come. Things swam together and went black. He clutched the butt of the pistol in his coat pocket with a cold, damp hand and stared at Draper. The man seemed of superhuman size. He was like something the little church had been built to hold. Woodie shook with fear. His mother laid her hand on his arm. “Is yer all right, Son?” “Yes’m,” he muttered thickly, “I’m all right.” But he scarcely heard her and was barely aware that he had replied. The first notes of the hymn came whining out of the old melodeon. He rose with the rest, and the congregation sang. It passed over his mind in a blur of sound. Draper knelt beside the pulpit and prayed, and the people bowed their heads to the roll of his voice. Woodie listened long enough to be sure the prayer held no menace for the dead man; the rest of it became a confused rumble in his ears. Draper rose from his knees. Omitting the hymn between the prayer and the sermon, he looked out over his people--gathered them in with his eye. A hush fell upon them. The faint, lazy call of a distant flycatcher pulsed its way clearly through their midst, and he spoke, slowly. “Brethren an’ sisters, de hymn done ax yer, shall we gather at de river, de beautiful river dat flows by de throne uv Gawd? An’ _Ah’m_ a-axin’ yer”--he paused, spread out his arms in a slow gesture of restrained power and let his voice fall upon a note that went through the waiting people as a wind through leaves--“_Ah’m_ a-axin’ yer, brethren an’ sisters, when yer gits ter de river, de beautiful river dat flows by de throne uv Gawd, is yer gwine ter be fitten ter _git on de boat_: de big boat dat’s a-waitin’ by de bank, wid de steam a-shootin’ outer de chimbley an’ de paddles a-splashin’ in de water--de big boat dat’s a-waitin’ dar ter take yer on down ter de throne itse’f? _Is yer gwine ter be fitten?_” A groan went over the people. A scarcely audible sigh of anticipation came out of them. Draper caught it and fanned it. His voice began its steady march toward its goal. Woodie’s mouth grew dry. His heart seemed about to burst. “It ain’t gwine do yer no good ter _sneak_ on ter de big boat ef yer ain’t fitten, caise’ yer can’t fool de Lawd Jesus! Yer might fool de cap’n er de boat, or de Angel Gabriel, but”--the creak of an automobile brake came through the window--“yer can’t”--his outstretched hand sank to his side--“fool----” His big features stiffened with displeasure. He stood silent, staring toward the door. Woodie turned with the rest. His heart bounded like a toy balloon and then crowded up into his throat and stuck there. Miss Jinny Pickens was coming down the aisle.