“That's right, Jim. There's where we're with you. D'you reckon Apostle Hingston'll let us in to see the miracle if we'll keep the believers straight while the Almighty is at it?” “I can't say for Mr. Hingston,” Redfield returned. “But if I was in his place I'd want to keep my jug out of sight when you fellows were on duty.” Redfield passed the Gillespies as he lounged back to his place with a covert glance at the girl, who made no sign of seeing her champion. The woman who was bringing the body of the miracle came round the corner of the mill, and showed herself in the open space with the bolt of cloth borne carefully in her arms. “Why, it's a baby!” came from that merriest of the Hounds whom Redfield had turned from an enemy into a troublesome friend of the believers. “Reckon the women'll have something to say to that if he tries to turn e'er a baby into seamless raiment.” The fellow got the laugh he had tried for, and when Redfield looked toward him again he said, “All right, Jim. I'm keepin' 'em quiet the best I can. But the elect _will_ make a noise, sometimes.” The woman with her bundle passed through the open door of the house behind the mill. The public entrance was at the front where by day the bags of grain were lifted by rope and tackle to the upper story, and the farmers who brought them climbed up by the inner stairways. The believers had expected that they were to come in by way of the dwelling, but now the burly figure of the miller, with the light of a candle behind it, showed black in the doorway, and he spoke up, in his friendly voice: “Neighbors, we want you all to go round to the front of the mill and come in there. The miracle is going to be done on the bolting-cloth floor, where there will be room for all that wants to see. We don't mean to keep anybody out, whether they believe or don't believe. The only thing we want is for you all to be quiet, and not make trouble. And now, come in as quick as you can, so you can be sure we haven't had time to do anything to the cloth that the seamless raiment is going to be made out of.” “Hounds and everybody?” called that gayest voice among the outcasts. “Hounds and everybody,” the miller humorously assented, and his black bulk melted into the dark as the candle disappeared within. The dim light from tin lanterns threw the pattern of their perforations on the walls and roofs of the interior, and showed the tracery of the floury cobwebs. The people could scarcely see their way to the stairs by the glimmer, and there was more talking with nervous laughter than there had been outside. One of the Hounds called out, “I don't want any of you girls to kiss _me!_” and gave the relief of indignation to the hysterical emotion of the believers; the more serious of the unbelievers found escape in their helpless laughter from their tense expectation of triumph in the failure of the promised miracle.