As we came to a low, red cottage, a gate in front slowly opened, and the tall, thin form of a woman appeared, in a gray dress, Rob-Roy shawl, and high poke bonnet, followed by a Maltese cat. There was something so pleasant in the expression of her face, so patient and kindly, that I followed her movements with sympathetic curiosity. “Who is that, Father?” I asked, in an undertone. “That is ‘Hannah, who sang _countre_.’ She holds a meeting alone every Sunday morning, on the old church steps, and declares that the church-members will come together again, and there will be a great thanksgiving, if she remains faithful. Her mind is slightly unbalanced, and she thinks she is a prophetess.” My father bowed to her, and her face lightened up as she said,— “A beautiful morning. ’Tis a morning of the trees of the Lord, and I am one of the branches. Do you believe in the Great Thanksgiving?” Her face seemed full of hope. “No, Hannah, no,” said my father, truthfully. “No? Well, I am sorry you don’t believe it. But I must be faithful. It is sure to come, for it has been revealed to me. I have been faithful to the dead,—and now I must be faithful to the living. This is all I have to live for. It will come! The people of the Lord in these plantations will gather again. The doors will open, and there will be great thanksgiving. I shall be there,—right before the pulpit, right by the deacon’s seat. It has been revealed to me. I don’t know how I shall be there. That is a veiled mystery; there is a shadow over it; I cannot see _how_ it will be, but I shall be there.” “Where are you going this morning? Will you ride?” asked my father. “I’m going to meetin’.” “Who is to preach?” “I.” [Illustration: MUSICIANS FROM MOORISH THEATRE.] “Who attends the meeting?” “I.” “Who sings?” “I.” “Do you sing _countre_?” She dropped her eyes, and looked down on the violets, and when at last she lifted her face, it was wet with tears. “Bless you, no! There is no one now to sing _countre_. It takes two voices to sing _countre_. They will sing again after the Great Thanksgiving, but now I am left to sing alone. I have to sing the upper part now. My voice is not so good as it used to be.” She broke some purple lilacs from the sunny bushes by the roadside, and gave them to me. I thanked her, and, with a heart full of boyish sympathy, said,— “I wish I had something to give you.” “You are a good boy to say so, but I don’t expect anything from any one now. My folks are all housed in the graveyard, and the sun is shinin’ upon them, and the violets bloom in there. I shall be with them soon. I wish you would come to meetin’ with me some Sunday morning. I’ll sing to ye, and tell of my vision, and the Great Thanksgiving. It is lonesome to preach all to one’s self, and the dead.” “Don’t any one ever come to hear you?” asked I.