  In nearly every neighborhood of the South, there comes, in the fall of the year, a sort of religious wave. Men, who, during the summer swore at their horses and stopped but little short of blasphemy, in imprecatory remarks addressed to obdurate steers, turn reverently, after fodder-pulling time, to Mt. Zion, Ebeneezer, New Hope and Round Pond, to hear the enthusiastic pleadings of the circuit rider and the begging injunctions of the strolling evangelist. Robert's Cove, in East Tennessee, is a neighborhood typical of this peculiar religious condition. Last autumn, when the katydid shivered on the damp oak leaf and the raccoon cracked the shell of the pinching "crawfish," there suddenly appeared at One night, after a stormy time at the mourners' bench, and while women whose spirits were distressed still stood sobbing about the altar, Mayberry approached a "Who is that peculiar old woman, that wrinkled and strange-eyed dwarf who sits so near the pulpit every night?" "We call her old Tildy," Brother Hendricks replied. "She has been a-livin' in this here neighborhood mighty nigh ever sense I kin ricolleck. She's a mighty strange old woman, but I never hearn no harm uv her." "She may be a good woman," the preacher rejoined, "but she casts a chill over me every time I look at her. Goodbye, Brother Hendricks. Think of me to-night when you get down on your knees." The preacher sought his temporary home. He lived about a mile from the church, in an old log cabin with one room. Many of the people had offered him a home, but, declining, he declared that he wanted to be alone at night, so that, undisturbed, he could pursue his studies or pray for inspiration. The hour was late. The preacher had taken down "Fox's Book of Martyrs" and was looking at its thrilling illustrations, when a knock at the door startled him. "Come in," he called. Old Tildy stepped into the room, and, quickly closing the door, stood with her back against it. She nodded her head and smiled—a snaggle-tooth grin—and said: "How air yer, Brother Mayberry?" "I am very well, I thank you." "Powerful glad ter know that folks air well." "Thank you; but what business can you have with me at this time of night?" "Mighty 'portant bizness, Brother Mayberry, mighty 'portant." "Does it concern your soul?" "Not ez much ez it do yourn, Brother Mayberry; not nigh so much ez it do yourn." "I don't understand you!" the evangelist exclaimed. "But I'll see that you do, Brother Mayberry. I reckon you've noticed me at church, hai'nt you?" "Yes." "Well, whut you reckon I went thar fur?" "To hear the gospel, I suppose." "Not much, Brother Mayberry; not much. I went thar to see you." "To see me! Why on earth, madam, do you care to see me?" "Would ruther see you on earth, Brother Mayberry, than anywhar else. I went to see you, Brother Mayberry, because I love you." "Merciful heavens!" exclaimed the evangelist, throwing up his hands in a gesture of horror. "Yes, Brother Mayberry, I love you, and I want you to be my husband." "Oh, God forbid!" the disgusted preacher groaned. "Yes, Brother Mayberry, but the Lawd hain't forbid. Let me tell you one thing: when old Tildy sets her head, w'y The cold dew of horror gathered in beads on the preacher's brow. "Madam," said he, "I cannot marry you. Your request is preposterous; your presence is appalling. Go away." "Not until I lead my husband with me, Brother Mayberry." "Go, I tell you, or I will throw you out of the house." "Throw po', old, harmless Tildy out of the house? Ha, ha! Brother Mayberry!" She took a horse-pistol from under her apron. "Buckshot in this, Brother Mayberry; ha, buckshot." The preacher sank down on a chair. He did not care to die. In life there was such a bright promise of the good he could accomplish. He could not marry the hag, but there she stood with her awful weapon. Could he not rush upon her? "No, you can't, Brother Mayberry," she said, lifting the pistol. She was reading his thoughts. Could he not pretend that he would marry her, and afterward make his escape? "No, you can't, Brother Mayberry," she said. "The jestice uv the peace is waitin' outside with the license. Oh, no, Brother Mayberry, I'll not give you a chance ter run away. Wouldn't it be awful fur the people ter come here ter-morrer an' find Brother Mayberry with a hole through his beautiful head? Must I call the jestice uv the peace, ur shoot you?" "Merciful heavens, what is to become of me? I cannot die this way." "Yes you can, Brother Mayberry." "Oh, I cannot marry this hag." "Not this hag, but yo' own true love, Brother Mayberry. Come, whut do you say?" The preacher dropped upon his knees. The woman advanced a few steps. The preacher heard some one at the door. Was it the justice of the peace whom the woman had under her control? A man stepped into the room. "What does this mean?" he asked "This horrible creature is going to kill me if I don't marry her," the preacher replied. "Are you the justice of the peace?" The man laughed. "No, I'm no 'squire. Goin' ter kill you, eh? But what with?" "That awful horse-pistol." "That's no pistol. It's simply a stick. W'y this is one of her favorite games. "How about Patterson's boy?" the preacher asked. "He's all right. I seed him this mawnin'." "Yes, but she killed old Martin." "Did she? I saw him not more than three hours ago. Come, Tildy, go on away." She put the crooked stick under her apron, and, without saying a word, glided out into the darkness. The preacher lifted his hands and uttered a fervent prayer.
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