"Wall, Cinthy thinks somebody'd ought to come in and make a prayer. 'He
wasn't a perfessor,' says she. 'Lord knows, if he had a been,' says I,
'there'd be more need on't!' 'Anyway,' says I, 'he can't hear nothin', it
won't do him no harm.' So I thought I'd come out and see. It'll make
Cinthy feel easier."
There was a whispered consultation among the women, but Emily came over
to where I sat.
"Come, teacher," said she. "Your voice ain't as raspin' as some, and
you've got a knack o' stringin' words together, that sound likely, and
don't hit nobody--you come in."
"Hush!" I cried, grasping the woman's hand, thinking only, then, that it
would seem like sacrilege for any one to speak aloud in the room where
one was waiting for Christ to wake him. I had forgotten at that moment
that I was out of the habit of praying, even for myself. Emily's tale had
moved me so, it seemed only its sweet and fitting consummation, and
nothing incredible to my mind then, that Christ should come down out of
the starless sky to touch that heavy sleeper's brow.
It was finally decided that there should be a quiet little prayer-meeting
in the room where the women sat, in behalf of Mr.
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