For yonder where the black earth of the swamp heaved in a formless mound
she felt the black arms of Elspeth rising from the sod--gigantic,
mighty. They stole toward her with stealthy hands and claw-like talons.
They clutched at her skirts. She froze and could not move. Down, down
she slipped toward the black slime of the swamp, and the air about was
horror--down, down, till the chilly waters stung her knees; and then
with one grip she seized the oak, while the great hand of Elspeth
twisted and tore her soul. Faint, afar, nearer and nearer and ever
mightier, rose a song of mystic melody. She heard its human voice and
sought to cry aloud. She strove again and again with that gripping,
twisting pain--that awful hand--until the shriek came and she awoke.
She lay panting and sweating across the bent and broken roots of the
oak. The hand of Elspeth was gone but the song was still there. She rose
trembling and listened. It was the singing of the Big Meeting in the
church far away. She had forgotten this religious revival in her days of
hurried preparation, and the preacher had used her absence and apparent
indifference against her and her work. The hand of Elspeth was reaching
from the grave to pull her back; but she was no longer dreaming now.
Drawing her shawl about her, she hurried down the highway.
The meeting had overflowed the church and spread to the edge of the
swamp.
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