And smiling said

'Believe.'

FOR several days Tim Messer had been thinking about his soul. And on this hot August afternoon, as he gave his bottom corn its laying-by ploughing, his mind kept running on the mighty revival raging across the creek a mile away, at Little Bethel Church. Many a 'big meeting' had come and gone without disturbing him. But the new preacher from Johnson County had stirred up the neighborhood with his fervor, and Tim was beginning to feel the effects of it. At the end of a row he stopped and wiped his streaming face with his sleeve, while he blinked at the Lazy Laurence dancing across the fields. The dust choked and irritated him, and his crops needed rain.

VOL. 134-NO. 1 D

"y God, apt as not the whole shooting match is praying fer me over there right now!' he muttered to himself, pulling his mule around.

As yet he had made no step to go near the meeting. But each night his Aunt Margaret had attacked him anew, holding up to him the conversion of this and that friend. And Tim had heard of their going, one by one, into the fold. Every day for the last week there had been special prayers for him and Sam, the two hardened sinners of the community. And most disturbing of all had been the news that the day before Sam's sweetheart had prevailed upon him to go to hear the man of God.

'If he gives in, I'm ruint,' said Tim,

And they had. For nearly ten years Sam and Tim had been traveling the road to the devil, as the holiness people of Little Bethel termed their way of living. And the cause of Tim's wickedness was his father's old fiddle, an instrument accursed because of the many reels played upon it by both Tim and his father before him, and doubly a thing of evil in that old man Messer had died suddenly one night while playing it before the fire. Sam had been seduced by a banjo. To the Little Bethel people this was second only to the fiddle in its harmfulness.

These two had started playing together as boys. And most of their sparking' was done together. Not a dance from Summerville to Dunn could be held without Sam and Tim to do the playing. No man along the Cape Fear River could fiddle off 'The Arkansas Traveler' talking-piece or 'Leather Breeches' or 'Sally with her Shoes Run Down,' the way Tim Messer could. Nor could anyone whang the chords and hang up the minors like Sam Adams when he got down to business. And the way they both overflowed with variations at 'balance all' was a thing to remember. For years they had walked off with all the first prizes at the fiddlers' conventions in the Lillington courthouse.

They were inseparable cronies, known far and wide as 'Sam and Tim.' Tim was long and leathery and silent. Sam was short and jovial. Each found in the other what he lacked in himself. And they would have been content to farm their crops and play at dances

the rest of their lives. At least, Tim would have.

As he ploughed along, listening to the maypops and hogweeds tear against the keen steel sweeps, he ran over in his mind some of the merry times they had seen together. And he soon forgot the danger their partnership was being subjected to. Stowing his tobacco far back in his jaw, he broke out into one of the ballads he and Sam knew

'My li'l' goose swum down the river.—
Ti-yiddy-yum-yum-yiddy-yum-ya.

If I'd been a gander I'd a-swum with her.
Ti-yiddy-yum-yum-yiddy-yum-ya.'

A low roll of thunder sounded in the west, and he looked up to see a long dark bank of cloud stretched across the horizon, rising here and there into a boiling sun-lit point. He sensed a shiver of delight running through the corn as he stopped his mule and drew in a great breath of cooling air.

"That there rain 'll come pimeblank right,' he said, 'jest as I 'm aending up the last row.' And then he was startled by a sudden thought. 'I be dad-burn! Aunt Marg❜ret said that there preacher was going to pray fer rain to-day.' He hastily clucked to his mule, uneasy at what might be a further and greater proof of the revivalist's power.

When he had finished stabling Fannie, he went into the house. From a case in the corner of the room he took out his fiddle and sat by the window. The rain soon settled into a steady drone on the roof. Out of the thankfulness of his heart he began to play snatches of melodies, his 'made tunes,' as he called them. His music and reverie were interrupted by a stamping of feet on the porch, and Aunt Margaret, a thin little old woman, wet and bedraggled, came into the room. Spying him at the window, she called out fearfully,

"Lord-a-mercy! don't set at that there window and the lightning bolts a-flying. Put up that devil's instrument, and sich a black cloud coming over the world!'

'You better git you on some dry clothes, and I'll build you a far,' was all he answered. But after a moment he rose and put the fiddle away. When she came back from dressing, he saw by the firelight that her eyes were red and swollen from weeping at the meeting. And there was a sort of elated look in them too that disturbed him. 'Something must happened to Sam,' was his first thought. Finally he asked somewhat timidly, 'Did - did you have a good meeting a good meeting to-day, Aunt Marg❜ret?'

a

'Why you ax that?' she quavered sharply, giving him a direct look.

'I was jest jest axing,' he said, sitting down and gazing into the fire. 'Oh, it was a great outpouring of the spirit!' she cried. 'God was with us. Brother Baxter prayed fer rain, and see, it 's come. But what 's God's power to you, Tim?' she went on, turning away her head. 'You ain't one o' his children and don't seem lak you never will be.'

Foreseeing a repetition of last night's scene, he got to his feet and said he 'd better go out and feed. But she motioned him to sit still.

'Tim, I 've tried these many days to git you to live the way yer ma 'd want you to. But they ain't no sign o' you giving in. I got a feeling if you ain't saved this meeting you won't never be this side the grave.'

'We talked all that over yistiddy and the day before, and you know how I feel,' he spoke up unhappily. 'And they ain't a bit o' use worrying over me,' he added a little warmly as he went to the door.

"How can I help worrying over yer immortal soul's salvation and you my

own blood and kin, I'd lak to know!' she burst out.

The rain began coming down more heavily outside. He turned back into the room and stood at the window, watching the flood of yellow water running by the house in the lane.

"Tim, don't you ever feel yer conscience hurt you a speck?' she queried tremulously.

'I ain't denying I'm a sinner, a bad sinner,' he presently rejoined, drumming on the window-pane. 'But somehow I don't want to change, and that's ezzactly how I feel.'

'Yes, you don't want to change!' she broke in warmly. 'You 've played the devil's music till yer heart 's hardened near 'bout beyond redemption. Cain't you see where that fiddle's leading you? It sent yer pap to a sinner's grave, him playing fast tunes fer loose-living men and women. And you 're tromping right in his steps.' She twisted her thin hard hands together. 'Brother Baxter told me to-day that worldly reels had led more men to destruction than you could think of, and you'd orter take warning. O Tim, he 's told us 'bout how the Philistines feasted and danced and sung whilst death was a-drawing nigh. And the sons and daughters of Job was snatched away in they hour of music and cutting up.' Here she cried out excitedly, 'Oh, he 's going to call the wrath of Old Moster down on you if you don't change yer ways.'

He eyed her uneasily as she sat shaking in her chair and wiping the tears from her eyes. 'Aunt Marg’ret,' he called gently, trying to hide his perturbation, 'we 've had a monstrous heap o' talk. Le's git our supper.'

'No, I ain't. I promised all of 'em at the church I'd plead with you ag'in when I got home. They was a dozen prayers offered up fer you. And, Timmy, you got to be saved.'

'But you ain't heerd what the Lord's done fer us this day,' she hurried on. 'Sam has perfessed!' She looked at him in a kind of appealing triumph.

He stood silent in the doorway, and then went out to feed the mule and cow. The rain had stopped, and the earth sent up a warm steamy smell. The sun was setting through a bank of cloud that prophesied more rain during the night. 'It shore is all a purty sight,' he said to himself as he stared out across his fields. But his soul was not at peace. The feeling of discontent and wretchedness was growing stronger in him. 'What 'n the name o' Old Scratch 'll I do now with Sam gone?' he muttered.

His attention was suddenly attracted by a bright illumination in the house. He turned and ran quickly across the porch and into the room. Aunt Margaret was standing near the fireplace watching his fiddle-case burning brightly. Jerking the old woman backward, he snatched the instrument from the flames. He opened the smoking case and found the fiddle wrapped in its flannel unharmed. Old Margaret dropped in a chair, rocking to and fro and sobbing,

"I wanted to save you, Tim. I was doing it all fer you,' she whimpered.

He laid the fiddle on the bed and threw the ruined case back into the fire. It blazed up and finally burned itself out. Then he turned to her.

'Aunt Marg❜ret, it may be wrong to play music and go to dances, I don't know. But you got to promise me never to tech that fiddle ag'in. The day you do, I walk out 'n this house fer good, and that's the gospel truth.' 'All right, have yer own way, Tim, have yer way,' she gulped. 'But it breaks my heart to see She bowed her head in her apron, cry

to see

about the room, knowing nothing to say. Soon the light failed in the yard outside, and the fire died down. He laid more wood on the coals, and they sat in silence for an hour or more. At last she dried her eyes and added, —

'Brother Baxter 's going to hold a meeting here in this house Saddy night if you don't go to church before then, Tim.' He tapped his muddy shoe nervously against the bare floor. 'Please go to church to-morrow, won't you?'

But he would not promise.

Next morning they ate their breakfast in silence. He told her she could drive Fannie to church, since it was too wet to plough. And he ignored the dumb request in her eyes by saying that he had to split stove-wood while he had a little spare time. But without knowing why, he ventured to remark that he 'mought go later.' Then he hitched the mule to the road-cart and went to chopping wood.

II

After she had gone, he sat down on a block and fell into a deep musing. For several hours he sat thinking things over. Near noon he was aroused by the sound of footsteps. Looking up, he saw Sam, dressed in his Sunday best.

'Well, I be durn!' he began delightedly; then his face fell and he added quietly, ‘Hi, Sam.'

"Hi, Tim. How you come on?' 'Middling, I reckon, how you making out?'

'Well as common, I guess."

'I thought it mought be better 'n common,' Tim answered somewhat coldly.

Sam flushed slightly and said noth

ing.

'Set down on this here log if you won't hurt yer clothes.'

'It won't hurt 'em,' he replied slowly. He sat down and began making marks on the ground with a stick. For a moment Tim drummed nervously on his knee and then absently pulled his tobacco from his pocket, bit off a chew, and handed the plug to Sam, who reached out for it eagerly. But suddenly he let his hand drop to his side.

'I cain't cain't chew now,' he stammered.

'Excuse me, Sam, I 'd clean forgot fer the minute that you 'd been converted.'

'Oh, that's all right, Tim. I nearly forgot it myself.' He began digging again with his stick. "Brother Baxter says God 'll take away my taste fer it. But I reckon I ain't been consecrated long enough yit,' he remarked somewhat shamefacedly.

'I don't want to seem curious,' said Tim, after they had sat in an embarrassing silence, 'but how does it feel to have a change in life?'

'I dunno ezzactly sorter lost lak or something,' was the mournful acknowledgment.

'Well, I reckon my time 'll come next, Sam,'

'Do you?' He looked eagerly around. 'I - I hope so.'

'Why you hope so fer?'

'Mebbe I ort not to hope so, but you 'n' me 's pulled together so long in making music that it seems lak we mought make a team of it in this new business.'

'Yeh, we shore have run doubleyoked many a day. It jest went through my mind 'fore you come how we wound up at Sock Horton's Saddy night a month ago.'

'Did n't we though!' Sam rejoined, breaking into a loud laugh. "I can still see the weaving of old Lizzie Ryall's thin legs plain as day. And, Tim, how we did put the gravy on "Mississippi

Sawyer"! I've hearn they 'lowed you 'n' me was in our prime that night.' Then his face grew sober, and he ended hurriedly, 'But le's not talk o' that.'

'Yeh, I reckon we 'd better keep off 'n that subject, seeing as how things is going.' There was a trace of feeling in Tim's voice that Sam was quick to notice.

'I don't blame you fer feeling out with me, Tim, I shore don't. And I did n't have no idee o' going back on you the way I have, nuther. But Maisie kept after me to go to meeting jest one day. She even put it so strong as to say I need n't look at her no more if I did n't. And what could I do?' Tim spat off towards a piece of pine bark and said nothing.

'I swear to Go-, I declare I did n't mean to git no religion when I went. But onct in that church and that preacher's eyes sot on me, I did n't have no more chance than a fly in syrup. He preached at me, Tim, and the people prayed at me, and they cut up worse 'n that time in the Bible where a whole county was converted slick as a whistle. And what did I do but git crazy or something, and jump up and shout, "Glory to God I'm saved." That's jest how it was.'

'It shore seems lak he 's determined to convert everybody around here,' drawled Tim abstractedly.

'It does that all right.'

'But I wish you could have put it off till next month anyhow,' Tim continued.

'You do?'

'You must 've forgot we 're scheduled to play over on Little River three weeks from now.'

'I ain't forgot it, nuther,' was Sam's quick reply. 'And all last night I did n't sleep nary a wink, thinking 'bout what all this new way o' living 's going to mean. But it 's too late to worry now. I'm a changed man and