“Marcelly dunno nuthin’,” Clem Sanders remarked loyally, defending her against the imputation of a knowledge of politics. “She jes’ ’lows ez her dad air the biggest man in the Newnited States. Laws-a-massy, I don’t wonder Teck Jepson war afeard o’ her.” He strove to adjust his countenance to a proper sense of calamity, but he was a simple fellow, and frank with himself, and albeit he deplored the misfortunes and distresses of his friends, he saw his own gain, and its prospect of cheer was in his square face and his bright and narrow eyes. “I hed no sheer in it,” he observed half aloud, recognizing his own state of mind, “an’ I know I hope an’ pray to God ez Eli won’t die.” No; matters should remain as they were now,—adapted to the best interests of those most worthily concerned. Eli Strobe should recover, but with this breach between the handsome Jepson and Marcella, Clem Sanders felt that no grass should grow beneath his feet while he put his fate to the test. “I useter be sorter ’feard o’ Marcelly, but ef I war gin jes’ one mo’ chance I’d do some sech all-fired quick courtin’ ’twould ’stonish the kentry.” It was not often that Parson Donnard figured as an apologist. But in common with all the country-side, as well as Teck Jepson himself, he had mistaken the Biblical enthusiasm of the young man for religion, and had often felt moved to publicly rejoice in the gracious outpourings of the spirit so strikingly manifested here. As he and his son stood amongst the group, he was accosted by Nevins, whose uncharacteristic causticity was sharpening with his sense of loss; for the shock of the first realization of the result had resolved itself into a continuous ache, that would always stir and thrill again so long as his memory might rouse his pride. “This hev been a toler’ble hard day fur the saints, pa’son,” he ventured. His once pleasant smile was a politician’s sneer, that did not match the obvious meaning of the words he spoke. “Seems sorter ’stonishin’ fur one o’ the Lord’s elect ter git ter bettin’, an’ horse-racin’, an’ resistin’ arrest, an’ run down an’ crack the skull o’ the off’cer o’ the law, ez kem a-bulgin’ an’ a-runnin’ out in the road afore the horses’ huffs, mad ez a bull o’ Bashan, though he war a shinin’ light hisself.” The thin ascetic face flushed slightly, thus attesting that the parson’s blood was red and warm. But he proved equal to the emergency. “Thar’s a lesson in it, brother,” he returned fervently. “The best ’mongst us kin only lean on the Strong Arm. An’ when we lose our hold, brother, ef it’s only fur a minit, ah! then, brother, we fall,—saint or sinner, brother, we fall! Lean on the Strong Arm, brother, an’ be upheld!”