and then the itinerant launched into his sermon.  At first it was dry and argumentative, then burdened with divisions and quotations, but in the end he closed the great book, and made one of those fierce, feeling appeals—­brimming with promises of grace and threatenings of hell—­in words so homely that all felt them true, while the wild, interpolated cries of the believers thrilled and terrified the young.

Little Paul heard with pale lips these grim, religious revelations, and his child’s fancy conjured up awful pictures of worlds beyond the grave.  He wondered that the birds dared riot in the roof:  the sky in the gable window was full of cloudy marvels; and the snow beat under the door, like a shroud blown out of one of the churchyard tombs.  The closing prayer was said at last, the unconverted walked away, but five or six communicants remained to tell their experience in the class-meeting.  Paul’s father gave him permission to go into the yard if he liked, and the boy got into the sulky, beneath the buffalo, and heard the sobs and hymns floating dismally on the wind.  Grim shapes thronged his mind again, wherein the Bible stories were mingled with tales of ghosts and strange nursery fables.  They chased each other in and out, generating others as they went, and then came drowsiness, and Paul slept.

The class-meeting lasted an hour.  It was very fervent and demonstrative; and when it was over the kind old lady who had given Paul the gingerbread asked the preacher home to dinner.  She said that roasted turkey, wild duck, and pumpkin-pie were waiting for them; and Mr. Bates thought fondly what a treat it would be for Paul on his birthday.  He was to preach again that afternoon, seven miles away, and so moved briskly toward the sulky.

“The poor fellow is asleep,” said the preacher, seeing that the curling head was not thrust up at his approach.  “I wonder of what he dreams?” He drew near as he spoke.  Old Bob was munching his corn sedately; the sulky had a saucy air; the robe nestled in the front, with the tiny stool peeping from a corner; but Paul was not there.  The preacher called aloud; the horses raised their ears in reply, and the wheels crackled in the frozen crust.  He called again; some sleigh-bells jingled merrily, and then the pines moaned.  He looked into the other vehicles; he watched for the little foot-tracks in the snow; he ran back to the old church, and searched beneath every pew.

“Brethren—­sisters,” he cried, “I cannot find my boy!” and his voice was tremulous.  They gathered round him and some said that Paul had ridden away with the worldly lads; others, that he was hiding mischievously.  But one silent bystander looked into the drifts, and traced four great boot-marks close to the sulky.  He followed them across the road into the pines, and out into the road again, where they were lost in the multitude of impressions.  “Brother,” he faltered, “God give you strength! your boy has been stolen—­kidnapped!”