Years ago he had had a deeply religious mother. One who would rise at dead of night and pray earnestly for her children. 'Tilda Jane's childish prayer had brought back this mother from her grave. What a good woman she had been! The dying wind, sobbing and sighing without, called to mind the camp-meetings that he used to attend when he was a boy. Churches were few and far between, and it was the event of the year for the scattered religious people to gather together under the pines for out-of-door services. He could hear the women singing now,--the weird sound of their voices floated down the chimney. Surely he was among them again,--that good, religious crowd.