“Well, I wouldn't 'a' left a hair in his head. I'd 'a'--I'd 'a' half killed him! Oh, when I think what a fool that man made of me!” “Don't let Jim Redfield make a fool of you, then.” “Who said I'm letting him?” the girl demanded fiercely. “Nobody. But don't.” “Aunt Nancy! If it was anybody but you said such a thing! But _I_ know! It's because you're so set on Hughey Blake. Hughey Blake!” she ended scornfully, and went back into the cabin. Nancy rose from her place with a sigh. “Oh, I 'spose you're right about my lettin' Joey go. _I_ don't know why I let him.” XX The meetings of the Little Flock had continued ever since the reappearance of Dylks, and in the earlier spirit. But the spring was broken, and since he had said that the New Jerusalem would not come down at Leatherwood, many had lost not faith but hope. Few could have the hope of following him as far as far-off Philadelphia, and sharing the glories which he promised them there. For a pioneer community the people were none of them poor; some were accounted rich, and among the richest were many followers of Dylks. But most of the Flock were hardworking farmers who could not spare the time or the money for that long journey Over-the-Mountains, even with the prospect of the heavenly city at the end. Yet certain of the poorest set their houses in order, and mortgaged their lands, and went with the richest, when on a morning after the last great meeting in the Temple, the Little Flock assembled for parting, some to go and some to stay. Nancy did not come with her boy for the farewell. They had kissed each other at the cabin door, and then he had run light-heartedly away, full of wild expectation, to find Benny Hingston at the Cross Roads and then race with him to join the crowd before the Temple, where the Little Flock stood listening to the last words which the Good Old Man should speak to them in Leatherwood. Many wept; Dylks himself was crying. The enemies of their faith did not molest them except for a yelp of derision now and then, and a long-drawn howl from the Hounds, kept well back by the Herd of the Lost, under the command of Redfield. He stood in the chief place among these, and at his right hand Matthew Braile leaned on his stick. When the last prayer had been said, and they who were going had kissed or shaken hands with those who were staying, and friends and foes had both scattered, Braile said to the young man whom he now faced, “Well, that's the last of him.” Redfield's jaw was still set from the effort of seeing the affair through in as much decency as he had been able to enforce. “It ain't the last of _them_. But I reckon, now he's gone, they'll behave themselves. None of the saints that are left will make trouble.”