 Chapter 7. Whom have we here? They seem to receive her advances in a good spirit. I said, as Laura and I watched to see what the elegantly dressed lady would say. Oh, of course! Laura answered. They are too well-bred to be other than courteous to her face. There were some, however, who proved to be less well-bred. There had entered the car at one of the stations, a lady whose description in brief might have been that she was overdressed—at least that was the main impression which she left on one's mind. No, I mistake. She was also loud-voiced, conversing with her travelling companion in so distinct a tone that we on the opposite side of the car had often the benefit. Presently she began to be well the fact that she had left behind her silver drinking-cup, and was wretchedly thirsty, yet she would rather die of thirst than drink from that horrid cup fastened with a chain. Face and feature expressed intense disgust. Mrs. Smith looked her sympathy, looked significantly at Laura's silver cup that lay exposed to view, but Laura, her cheeks aglow, refused to take the hint. At last, the grumblings continuing, the dear old lady plunged into her satchel once more, and drew there from a little old-fashioned tumbler of rare glass, a choice souvenir of the past century. I fancied that it might be designed as part of the young bride's outfit. It had lain unused, carefully wrapped in a fine linen towel. She wiped off the possible dust with great care, and went with benevolent face to her neighbour opposite. The cars were again stationary, and we heard her pleasant voice in explanation. Will you borrow my little glass to drink from? I haven't used it at all, and you are welcome to it. It is almost a pity that I cannot photograph the expression on the stranger's face. In its extreme hatefulness it might have served as a warning to that class of travellers. For what seemed a full minute she continued her ill-bred stare, then said, with all the haughtiness of an insulted princess, No indeed, thank you! After the retreating old lady she shot these words. The idea, the perfect idea! Laura's face was aflame, but when I ventured presently to steal a glance at Mrs. Smith, her eyes were as quiet as ever, and her mouth words placid smile. She was turning the leaves of one of her little books, and seemed to find peaceful words along its pages. Laura studied her curiously. Presently she leaned forward for a talk. Auntie, how do you feel when you meet such people, and they treat you that way? Feel as though the poor things had had very bad bringing up, child! With a twinkle in her eyes and a little twitching at the corners of her mouth. I know, of course, but don't you feel the least bit in the world provoked, as though there were no use trying to be kind to some people, and you wouldn't any more? I was not prepared for the sudden gravity that overspread the worn face, and the dimness like that of tears coming into her eyes. For a moment she was silent, then she said with quiet voice, I don't mean to be irreverent, Laura, nor impertinent to him. I think he understands all about it. But I can't help when such things happen now and then, like being a trifle glad in my heart. Not for their sin, you know, but because I remember just how the people treated him, and how he said the servant is not above his lord. And it makes me feel kind of sure that I am his servant. Do you understand, dear? No, said Laura, bluntly. I don't understand anything about it. I know I should feel like telling that woman over there that she had shown herself to be lacking in the first principles of common politeness, and I'm not sure but it would do her good. Whether it would or not, I couldn't help it. I could never tamely submit to such insulting ways. And yet he was led as a lamb to the slaughter, and as a sheep before his shearers is dumb, so he opened not his mouth. It was a sermon, that one text, and the manner in which it was repeated. It seemed to flash before us a sense of the tremendous difference between the poor little trials, which we are fond of calling crosses, and the prolonged, far-reaching, thorny cross which he bore for us. Laura had no answer to make. She sat back with a curious mixture of annoyance and admiration visible on her face. I often thought of it during those days how much my daughter Laura would have admired, yea, and it seemed to me, loved Jesus of Nazareth, could she and he have been on earth together. Yet she was not one of his disciples. I do not know, it may be that she would have been tried by his mingling too much with the common people. I am not sure that she could have borne the ridicule that was heaped upon him, nor endured the publicity of the scene when even his friends said, he is beside himself. I knew my daughter's face so well that I could study her thoughts as I looked. It was evident that while she admired her old friend, she still believed her to be mistaken. I could almost hear her thoughts. It will not do. Mama may talk and Mrs. Smith may act, but the world will sneer. As long as we have to do with the stuff that the majority of the world is made of, we must keep ourselves to ourselves or else be ridiculed or insulted. There was a little rustle down the aisle, and the elegant lady who had been the recipient of the grapes paused at our seat. She was elegant in the extreme. Everything about her be tokened wealth and refinement. A quiet dress enough, by no means so noticeable as our neighbors across the aisle. Yet the long silk circle, with its rich fur linings, represented in itself more money than possibly would have furnished the other's entire wardrobe. I beg pardon, she said in a clear musical voice, but I want to speak with you. Will you tell me please where you found that delightful little book you gave me? It expresses exactly what I have wished put into language for a friend of mine and have not been able to find. The desired information was given with a beaming face. You like it, then? said Mrs. Smith in great delight. Indeed I do! How beautiful it is! and so simply and plainly told. Nothing could more clearly explain our Heavenly Father's loving dealing with us. I thank you for bringing the book to me. It was a very sweet thought. Are you one of his daughters, then? I think I have mentioned before what a peculiar way Mrs. Smith had of speaking those personal pronouns. A sort of lingering tenderness mingled with something very like ah, an indescribable way indeed, but it left its impress. I have that great honor, the ladies said, with a happy look shining over her face. And I am very glad to meet you, one of his saints, so much farther along on your pilgrimage than I. You will reach home sooner, perhaps. If you do, give the elder brother my greeting, and tell him I am following on. The Lord bless and keep you! was Mrs. Smith's tenderly spoken answer? Then the two clasped hands, as though they were relatives, and indeed, now that I think of it, they were. He that doeth the will of my father, the same as my brother and sister and mother. I glanced at Laura to see what she thought of this development from the one whom she had planned was to give an entertainment to her home friends by turning Mrs. Smith into ridicule, but she kept her eyes persistently turned away and refused to give me the benefit of her thoughts. It was curious to watch human nature in our car after that. A party sitting two or three seats ahead of us sent a plate of very rich cake with their compliments to grand ma. Our German friends hunted among their treasures and produced a book three inches square in German, not a word of which Mrs. Smith could read, but on being told of the contents her face was radiant. The news-agent, on one of his rushes through the train, paused long enough at our seat to drop a peculiarly fine-looking orange into her lap, with the words, their grand ma, that's a sweet fellow! The ambition to show attention to our friend spread through the entire car, men, women, and children making special efforts for her comfort. The lady who had scorned a drink of water from the pretty old-fashioned tumbler watched these developments in perplexed astonishment for some time. Then, seeming to conclude that she had made a mistake, and this was some royal personage in disguise, she resolved on making amends in a direct line with her selfishness, of course, which is the way in which this class of persons always make amends. On the whole, she said, leaning across the aisle and speaking with careless condescension, I don't care if I do borrow your queer little glass for a few minutes, I am excessively thirsty. It is packed up now, said grand ma, regarding her in utmost good humor. I wrapped it all up in the towel and put it in the inside pocket of the satchel, but here is a bright tin cup I brought for the baby, that you can take and welcome. So my lady, at whom Laura could not help laughing a little, accepted the bright tin cup with what grace she could, and went for her drink of water, quieter, certainly, if not wiser. There was not a particle of triumph in Mrs. Smith's calm old face. She had simply done what seemed to her entirely reasonable and proper. There was a good deal of confusion attendant upon our change of cars. Everybody acted just as everybody always does act on such occasions, as if breathless haste were the necessity of the moment, and it really made no difference how many baskets and bundles and persons you upset in your transit, so that you reached the other train first. Each one seems to have an absorbing ambition to be first. Laura, who is apt to be nervous when her father is not of the party, looked about her somewhat wildly on emerging from the train, and repeated, Where is our car? Where is our car? Very much as if she were owner of an entire line. Nobody answered, or indeed heated her question, and the babble of voices grew every moment more confusing. Here is the man to ask, said Mrs. Smith's cheery voice, and she elbowed her way to the side of a policeman. Your train hasn't come in yet, Grandma, was his prompt answer. Stand right where you are until this one starts, then yours will run in on that track, the first train in after this one is out of the way, on the track nearest you. I'll see that you get on all right. Another tribute to the kind old face. Burly fellow though he was, his voice took a gentle protective tone as he talked to her. I fancy he may have thought of his old mother. Mrs. Smith, alert though she was to give attention to his directions, seemed also to be thinking of something else. Her eyes had that earnest far away look in them, that I had often observed when she became interested in a new thought. Presently she gave expression to it. Here you are, day after day, always appointing out the way for people. It must be kind of nice to be everlastingly helping folks out of muddles, and starting them off in the right direction. The policeman laughed, this evidently struck him as a new idea. He had not the appearance of a person who ever wasted any sentiment on his work. But Mrs. Smith was not yet finished. Before he could make answer, if such had been his intention, she said, I wonder if you could point out the way to heaven and see folks started on the right train to get there. Have you learned that road yet? He looked at her for a moment in blank astonishment, then shook his head. I'm afraid that road ain't on my beat, ma'am. The words were spoken respectfully and with a tinge of what might have been regret in his voice. Look to it, she said with energy. Look to it right away. Death is on your beat, you may be sure of that, and it ain't safe to wait until he comes after you before thinking of the right road. I wonder if you wouldn't read my little book. Whereupon, without fumbling, she produced from somewhere, as if it had been carefully thought of, and laid aside for this particular man, a little paper-covered volume entitled The Right Road. I learned afterwards that it was a book or a tract designed especially for railroad men, policemen, and other public servants, and that Mrs. Smith kept a package on hand, ready to use as opportunity offered, but at the time the appropriateness of the title amazed me. It was just as the winter day was settling into early twilight that the train rolled in at the city depot, which was our stopping place, and we joined the hurrying, crowding throngs once more, in just as much haste they were as though the train were to thunder on the next minute instead of having reached its terminus, as most of the passengers at least must have known was the case. Irving was to meet us at the depot, and looking eagerly for him though we were, we had almost missed him because we failed to remember how much, at a certain period of life, five years count, how the boy had changed. In fact, he was not a boy at all. It seemed absurd to apply the old name to him. A bearded man, tall, slightly built, it is true, yet with an air of manliness about his very overcoat. It was of the latest pattern and finest quality. That at least was natural. Irving had always been elegant. His uncle used to say of him, whether Irving has a roof to cover him or not, or any money to pay his board bill, he will be sure to have the latest fashion in boots and the best-fitting kids. I remember what a sore feeling it used to give my heart, because I realized the truth of the criticism, and Irving had been so nearly my own, that I shrank from recognizing about him that which was not perfect. He looked very handsome to me as I caught sight of him, moving patiently up and down the crowded platform, peering into strange faces in search of one familiar. Ha! Auntie at last! he exclaimed as I motioned him toward us. I thought I was to be disappointed. How did you happen to be the last ones out? What a distracting, pushing, irritating crowd this is. They have too many elbows. And this is… Laura, I declare. This last after a slight hesitation. I should not have known you if you had not been with Auntie. You are wonderfully changed. She looks a little like Mary and yet she doesn't. Who is it that she resembles? I believe it is Uncle. What a cruel thing it was in Uncle to desert me at such a trying time as this. Checks, please, Auntie, or Laura, whichever one is manager-in-chief. How fast Irving could talk! There was a good deal of the old dash about him, accompanied with a certain man of the world ease and freedom. Evidently he admired his cousin. While he hurried off these and kindred eager nothings, he cast approving glances on the trim graceful figure, and his face took a satisfied expression which I remembered well on a beardless face. Laura suited his aesthetic taste. He was so eager and so valuable, and in such haste about checks and trunks, and so determined to secure the best carriage for us, that up to this moment Mrs. Smith had been overlooked. In his haste he jostled against her, just as I was saying, Irving, my boy, you have not welcomed one of our party. Ha! he said, that indescribable little interjection Irving used it often. Whom have we here, your attendant, Auntie? His face was genuinely puzzled. Either he had heard nothing about the old aunt, or had forgotten her. He thought Mrs. Smith was a servant. Yet evidently he considered the situation a strange one, for two American ladies of moderate income and quiet tastes to be accompanied by a servant went on so brief a trip as ours, especially by one so old as Mrs. Smith. Irving, said Laura, cheeks and eyes aflame, is it possible you do not recognize our old neighbor, Mrs. Solomon Smith? Chapter 8 of Mrs. Solomon Smith by Pansy This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Chapter 8. I am glad that Solomon ain't along. Ha! he said again, wheeling quickly, and bestowing a searching, peculiar glance on Mrs. Solomon Smith. He had not known her very well. It was not strange, perhaps, that he had forgotten her existence. Yet he did not lose his self-possession in the least. Mrs. Smith, how do you do? He said, lifting his hat with grace. If I ought to remember you, I beg pardon for my delinquency. Laura, I remember those eyes. You look more natural now. Do you know how they used to flash at me, Auntie, when I was guilty of any special wickedness in her estimation? Well, Jake, is your carriage ready? This last to a grey-coated driver who appeared before us at that moment, touching his cap. Then we will go. Mrs. Smith, can I do anything for you before we depart? Whereupon the good lady seemed to consider it time to come herself to the rescue. He doesn't remember me, Laura. Addressing herself to Laura's angry eyes, rather than to Irving. Of course not! How should he? He was just a slip of a boy when I saw him last. Why, bless your heart, Elizabeth herself doesn't know me, though I am her old aunt. I haven't seen her since she wore longed-sleeve aprons made of pink gingham. Elizabeth, repeated Irving, still in utmost bewilderment. Evidently the name was unfamiliar to him. Yes, Elizabeth Smith, my niece, Leda they call her mostly, I guess, though it seems a pity when she has a good Christian name. Leda! It is impossible to convey to you an idea of the tones in which these brief words were exploded from our elegant young man's lips, but he understood at last who Mrs. Solomon Smith was. I beg pardon, he said, in the easy tone common to him. I had not heard of your expected arrival and was therefore in fog. Your relatives will be delighted, no doubt. Allow me! And he helped himself to her bundles and boxes with the speed and grace of a gentleman. Still the color on his face was heightened, and there was a slight cloud over the former sonniness. Here, Jake, he said to that official, take these. Now, Auntie, we are ready at last, I believe. And he gallantly offered me his arm, but Laura interposed. I will take care of Mama, she said coldly, evidently not having forgiven his greeting to her friend. The steps are icy. Please give your arm to Mrs. Smith. He did it promptly and courteously, but the frown on his face deepened. The Smith mansion was a blaze of light. As our carriage stopped before the steps, the door was thrown widely open, revealing a large and richly furnished hall, with every jet in the handsome chandelier sending forth a glow of welcome. A lady and gentleman stood in waiting, and a trifle in the background was a pretty girl in faultless home attire. This was evidently Leda. Our greeting was warm, even profuse in its cordiality. Yet the same astonishment that Irving had shown at the cars met Mrs. Solomon Smith. We actually had to introduce her to her relatives. Why, Jonas, you certainly know me. She said at last a touch of asperity in her voice. Fifteen or twenty years isn't such an awful while to people of our age that all trace of what there was of us has disappeared. I should know you in Joppa. Is it possible that this is Solomon's wife? The dignified and somewhat portly Mr. Smith managed at last to say, and there was added to his astonishment a touch of embarrassment. That's exactly who I am. Solomon couldn't come, so he sent me. And this is Elizabeth, is it? Dear child, you outgrew your pink gingham aprons long ago, but you'll never outgrow your eyes. I remember them. They was about the prettiest baby eyes I ever looked at, as blue as a piece of the sky, and the outsides of them looking as though they were made of the finest kind of china. They were pretty eyes yet, and they sparkled over this delicate bit of praise, their small owner submitting to the hearty old-fashioned kiss which her aunt gave her with passable grace, though she had much smoothing out of drapery to do when the old arms were withdrawn. Altogether it was a somewhat embarrassing time to all parties. The Smiths covered their surprise and annoyance with what grace they could, and seemed anxious to overwhelm Laura and me with attentions to atone for the momentary bewilderment. It transpired that it was genuine bewilderment. The country brother Solomon and Solomon's wife had been duly invited to the approaching wedding, Jonas having insisted on so much respect being paid either out of regard for the brother or in memory of the note on which interest had not been paid for five years. But it had not seemed to occur to any member of the family that the country relatives could buy any possibility except the invitation. Mrs. Smith's carefully written letter, apprising them of her coming, was brought in with the evening mail about two hours after their arrival. Our note to Irving had been more prompt, not having travelled first in the wrong direction as Mrs. Smith's evidently had, but we had neglected, naturally enough, to mention our travelling companion, and to make the bewilderment more complete, none of the party knew, until we told them, that we came from the same village. As for Irving, despite Laura's indignation he was not to blame. The Smiths had not moved to the little place near us until more than a year after he was gone, and if he ever knew that the old lady from the farm, where we got butter and eggs, was named Smith, all knowledge of it and of her had certainly departed from him. We were shown to our room, Laura's and mine, a front one on the second floor, arranged with every detail of modern elegance that could be imagined. Warmed by furnace, lighted by gas, Brussels carpet on the floor, rich and expensive curtains at the windows, mirrors, long and wide and clear, reflecting our figures whichever way we turned, delicately embroidered, lace-finished pillow-shams on the exquisitely made bed, and every bright and tasteful toilet appliance that we could, by any stretch of luxurious tastes, contrived to want. In short, the guest chamber par excellence of the house. Of course we were to receive special honor at their hands, for were we not the aunt and cousin of the prospective bridegroom? We recognized the naturalness of all this, yet I think Laura and I had the same unspoken anxiety as to how it fared with the dear, tired old lady who had borne so cheerily the fatigues of the all-day journey. I wish I knew which was her room, Mama. I would like to go and straighten her cap for her, and brush her dress, and coax her to leave her knitting upstairs for this one evening. I am afraid the pretty bride which is to be would faint if she should appear in the parlor with one of those gray socks she is always knitting. Oh, Mama, I hope they are not all shams, Irving and all. The seven o'clock dinner was gotten through with at last, though it was an ordeal more or less trying to every one of us. Mrs. Smith, in her round-waisted and short-waisted dress and her very old-fashioned cap, looked unlike anything that the city ladies had probably ever seen at their own table before. Moreover, she ate with her knife and did not use her napkin, and poured her tea into a saucer, and swooped up the last drop of soup from her plate with a distinct sound for each swallow. Common enough mistakes in an old lady, entirely pardonable if the people surrounding her had loved her, or if she had been a stranger to them, but to have to acknowledge her as a relative was, I suppose, more of a trial to them than we were able to appreciate. We were discussing the situation in our room the next morning. Laura was in a bubble of indignation. Mama, her hand was as cold as ice when I touched it on our way downstairs. If they have put an old lady like her in a cold room, I think it is a shame. I tried to comfort her with the reminder that she was merely surmising again, that perhaps Mrs. Smith was quite comfortable. I tried also to excuse our hostess by recalling the number of guests to be entertained and the improbability that they had many such sumptuous apartments as our own. It was all to no purpose. Laura refused to be charitable. I don't care if there are a hundred guests, Mama. They ought not to have invited more people than they could treat decently. She is the only old lady among them, and should have had special consideration. Sending her up two flights of stairs. I am sure they do that, for she was quite out of breath when I met her, and her teeth were chattering with the cold. I am certain she dressed in a room without a fire. I don't suppose she has done such a thing before at this season in forty years. I meant to go up with her and see how she was situated, but she slipped away while that silly little Lita was speaking to me. How Irving can! The sentence was left unfinished as though words had failed her. Somebody fumbled at our door knob in an uncertain manner, turned it hesitatingly, then apparently repented, then gained courage, and at last pushed the door open an inch or two and peeped in. It was Mrs. Solomon Smith. For the land's sake! she said, pushing wide the door as she caught sight of familiar faces. I found you at last. I thought I never should. I believe I've peaked into twenty rooms since I started. A body could get lost in this house as well as in the street. Where's that black hole that you stand over to get warm? My feet are all but froze off. Auntie, exclaimed Laura, haven't you any hole in the floor in your room? Nor a stove, nor any means of warming you? Not a sign of a hole, child. I guess all the holes that was made to order gave out before they got as high as my room, and they had to take them that come by chance. Ain't you fine, though? This is a pretty room. I guess it is the prettiest one in the house, and I peaked into some nice ones. I declare I'm beat a little at the way they live. Must cost something to pay the rent for this place, and get all the fixings put into it. I'm glad they're so much better off than Solomon reckoned. But I don't understand it for all that. I declare I don't. Meantime Laura had drawn the easiest chair in the room to the register's side, and gently seated her old lady in it. You look completely tired out, she said, still speaking indignantly. I don't believe you feel as well as you did last night. Well, the fact is, child, I didn't get more than a dozen winks of sleep. I had the socioblist kind of bed you ever see in your life. I couldn't even turn my elbow, but it would squeak out something or other at me. I kind of got witched with the thing after a while. It seemed to me it squeaked every time I breathed, so I just opened my eyes wide, and gave myself up to the business of lying awake and keeping that thing still. I felt worse about it, because them two hard-working creatures that tugged up and downstairs with satchels and towels, and then waited on the table and tended door, and flew two ways at once all the evening, was right next to me, and it did seem a pity that that squeaky thing should keep them awake. I'm going to borrow the oil can today and put an end to its tongue. I peeked into a room that had a sewing machine in it, so I suppose they've got an oil can. Laura looked volumes at me before she spoke. Auntie Smith, did they send you up to the fourth floor to sleep? I don't know how many floors there are, my dear, but I guess I'm about as high up as they get, unless they swing a bed out on the roof. I don't think it would be a bad place of a summer night, but I guess nobody sleeps there now. Auntie Smith, I think it is a perfect outrage. I just don't mean to endure it. The idea of sending an old lady their own aunt at that upstairs to sleep with the servants. Bless your heart, child! I don't mind being along with the servants. They're clean-looking girls, and they are not in the same room anyhow. It seemed kind of comfortable to have them there. I believe I'd have felt scary like without them. My door wouldn't lock, that is to say, there wasn't any key there to try whether it would or not. And though I've slept along with Solomon year in and year out, and never thought of locking the door, I'm just that foolish that the minute I get away from him I go to hunting around for locks and keys, as if all the evil-disposed folks in the world was bound to get hold of me. I think it is a perfect shame, repeated Laura. I wonder what your husband would say to it all, Mrs. Smith? I had been wondering the same thing. I had a vision just at the moment of the slow-spoken, often-time silent Solomon Smith, an old man whom people called commonplace, who yet had shielded and cared for this plain old woman during all the years of their married life as tenderly as he could possibly have done it on her wedding day. She laughed a little at Laura's question, and a tender light came into her eyes as she answered. I don't know what he would say exactly, but there's some things here he would think kind of queer. I tell you what it is. For the first time in all the forty years we've lived together, I'm glad that Solomon ain't along. Now that's just as true as you live. Solomon is kind of slow about some things, especially things that he ought to be slow about. And he is gentle and long suffering, if ever a body was. But when he is riled it means something, and the folks that rile him are apt to know it. I'm most amazing glad he didn't come. I'm not, muttered Laura. A riled person would be a decided relief to my nerves at this present time. Mrs. Smith paid no attention to her. Already she had passed from these minor matters to a thought of more importance. Mrs. Leonard, turning suddenly to me with an anxious look on her wrinkled face, Irving was a good boy when he lived with you, but as far as I can remember he wasn't a Christian. Do you believe he can have got to be a man without paying any attention to that? I'm afraid he has, I said, and I felt my voice trembling. It was a sore subject with me. I had tried to do my duty, yet I seemed to have failed, both with my own and with Irving. I have never seen anything in his letters, nor heard anything about him that would lead me to suppose him a Christian. And he is going to set up a family, take a young thing like my niece Elizabeth, and play at living without having that matter fixed. The dismay in Mrs. Smith's voice might have been ludicrous to some. To me it gave a sense of solemnity. Laura too looked grave. Do you think it is wicked for people to marry unless they are Christians? She asked the question with perfect gravity and without a suspicion of a sneer in her face. Mrs. Smith turned towards her and regarded her steadily for a moment while she seemed to be revolving the question. Do I think it is wicked child? She repeated slowly. Why, when was it anything but wicked to live along in this world neglecting the Lord Jesus and his call to come and follow him? Getting married and settling down in life without asking him anything about it just piles up the wickedness. Of course it doesn't begin there, but it makes another long step the wrong way and piles up the responsibility too. Besides, it always did seem to me a kind of mockery. He had the twain become one flesh in the first place just for a kind of continual picture to us of the love that there ought to be between him and us. And if we snatch at the picture, and are satisfied with it, and let the real thing go, it seems to me we are kind of tossing up our heads at him and saying, ah ha, ah ha, just as them wretches did around the cross. But there, that's just an old woman's notion. I'm afraid there's two of them. I ain't heard the child say a word, but I seem to kind of feel it in my bones that she ain't a Christian either. I guess Jonas ain't much of a one nowadays. He used to be a church member, but it don't look like it now. I tell you, Laura, you flash them bright eyes of yours like stars over my going up three pairs of stairs and sleeping next to the servants, and breaking the ice in my picture in the morning, and all that. But the whole of it ain't nothing to going to bed without having a word read in the Bible, and kneeling down together at family worship. I could most have cried last night to think of Solomon kneeling down all alone, and me doing the same. A great big household like this breaking up and going to bed without family prayer. Laura, don't you never marry a man who can't get down on his knees and pray for you, as your father has done all his life. Mark my words, you will be most awful homesick if you do. End of Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Of Mrs. Solomon Smith Looking On By Pansy The Slipper Box Recording Is In The Public Domain Chapter 9 Poor Lida And The Rest The next three days were trying ones. The Smiths were undoubtedly much annoyed by their relative. Very well-meaning people they were, and in the main, warm-hearted. Had it been an ordinary occasion, and the house free from other guests, I think they would have bestowed very courteous attention on Mrs. Solomon. But as it was, her unexpected advent at a time when many stylish guests, dear particular, fashionable friends of Miss Lida, gay young men, college intimates of the son Harris, whom, by the way, I find I have not mentioned at all, possibly because at that time I thought there was little or nothing about him to mention. And a dignified aristocratic aunt or two on Mrs. Smith's side were all at hand to demand special attention. I really don't consider it strange that the country aunt was sent to the fourth floor to sleep. Not that they intended any indignity thereby. They knew the room was clean, the bed ordinarily comfortable, and that the necessary conveniences were at hand. They knew also that people in the country were not accustomed to gas or furnaces, nor many of the luxurious appliances of modern-day life. They believed, no doubt, that they were giving Mrs. Solomon every wit as good accommodations as she had at home. How could they know that the grave and commonplace Solomon regarded her as the apple of his eye, studied day and night her comfort, would not, for all the worth of his little farm, let a breath of adverse wind touch her if he could help it? How could they know that before the sunrise of each winter morning he was moving around the room, stepping as if shot in velvet, not to disturb her last nap, while he raked out the coals and set the bits of wood in the old stove to burning, so that the atmosphere when she awoke would be that of summer? Comparatively few wives, after forty years of traveling together, receive such care it may be. Mrs. Jonas Smith, in her elegant home, had no such experience. Perhaps she may be pardoned for not understanding what the loss of it was to her more favored sister-in-law. Some of the guests were rude enough to amuse themselves at the old lady's expense, even before her face, trusting to a supposed obtuseness which did not exist, that her feelings would not be hurt thereby. Others of the guests were foolishly annoyed by her country ways and homespun language. I occupied that most embarrassing position, a sort of confident of all parties. Poor Leda, Mrs. Jonas Smith would say to me, half laughing, half sighing. It is really a great trial to her to have her Aunt Maria here. She is as good a soul as ever lived, of course. We all recognize that. But she is queer, both in looks and actions. There is no denying it. And Leda is young and sensitive. She declares she can never have her in the parlors during the ceremony. And her father assures her that she must, as of course she must. There is nothing else to do. And then poor Leda cries. I hate to have her last days of girlhood made miserable. What a pity the dear old soul chose this time for a visit! We could have made her so comfortable when we were quite alone, and her little peculiarities would have passed unnoticed. My dear Mrs. Leonard, you are so very kind to care for the old lady as you do, and keep her comfortable in your own room so much. I assure you we appreciate it. Leda was speaking only this morning of your and your daughter's thoughtfulness. She had talked on, like a smooth flowing stream, up to this point, giving no chance for a countercurrent. But now common honesty demanded that I should interpose to assure her that there was no unselfish thoughtfulness about our action, that we respected and loved Mrs. Solomon Smith, that she was an honored guest at our home, and that we delighted in her quaint ways and keen-sighted observations. I might as well have let the stream flow on. Indeed, Mrs. Jonas said, and I want to know. And, oh, to be sure, she is as good as gold. My husband always said that. He has great respect for his brother's character, too. Then she purled on about our thoughtfulness and our appreciation, and Leda's trial, and the general mortification it was, until I gave myself up to rejoicing over the fact that Laura was not there to grow hopelessly angry at her. One little hint I ventured. I am afraid she is careless about her fire and will take cold. I notice her hands are very cold mornings, and she seems quite in a shiver. Mrs. Smith gave me in return what I suppose might be called an evasive answer. She bemoaned the fact that the house was so unexpectedly full. It was impossible to make everyone as comfortable as she would like. Harris had brought home with him two more friends than he had written about, and that called for an extra room, of course. Then one of Leda's dearest friends had a cousin visiting her, and could not come without her. That's made still another unexpected one, she explained. And do you know poor Leda had to give up her own pretty little room and occupy a lounge in my dressing-room? I feel so sorry that the dear child should be turned out just at this time. All this meant, of course, that she had no spot for Mrs. Solomon Smith save the attic room, where there was no means of warming. I really suppose this was true, and that she had done the best she knew how. But it was only out of respect for Mrs. Solomon Smith's own feelings that Laura did not give up her place in our luxurious room, and herself mount to the fourth floor. Indeed, it was not until the old lady had pleaded earnestly that she secured a promise from my daughter to do no such thing. I shall feel hurt if you do, Mrs. Solomon had said, a great deal more hurt than I am about getting my clothes on in the cold a few mornings. It won't last long. Irving, too, seemed to consider me the proper person to express his mind before. Isn't she a queer sort of party, Auntie? How did you come to pick her up? Are you speaking of the aunt of your prospective wife? I asked him, and his handsome face flushed a little. Then he laughed. Well, now, Auntie, one isn't to blame for having queer relatives, I suppose. I don't care, of course, but it is rather hard on poor Lita and the rest. I have no doubt she is the salt of the earth as my dear cousin Laura hints out of angry mouth and flashing eyes whenever I cross her path. But if she would wear a little less startling cap and spectacles, and look a little less like a guy generally, I think I should recognize her worth fully as soon. I was nearly as vexed with him as Laura could have been, and spoke very coldly about the appreciation that depended upon the style of dress being hardly worth striving for. And then I went away without having a word of that talk which I had longed to have with Irving, in which I fancied he might have planned for in seeking me. Laura, too, poured out the vials of her indignation before me. She continued to be exasperated with the entire family, guests included. She hardly saw me alone that she had not some new grievance, a special sleight of some sort that her dear old lady had endured at their hands. It humiliates me, Mama, she would exclaim, tossing right and left the bright-colored wools with which she was working. The idea that because they have a little more money than she, and dress a little better, and all that sort of thing, they should presume to look down on a woman of her worth. It is such a shoddy state of society to make money the all-important factor in friendships even. How do you know that they have much more money than she? Solomon Smith is considered a pretty well-to-do farmer, you know, and you remember she herself told us that these city friends were not a might forehanded. Laura's sensitive lip curled. That makes me all the more vexed, Mama, whenever I think of it. The idea of their cheating Solomon Smith out of his lawful interest on hard-earned money, and then trimming even their pillow-shams with such lace as that. I tell you, Mama, there are a great many kinds of shams. Money is at the root of it all. Suppose for a moment that dear old Auntie Smith had fifty thousand dollars to leave to that simpering little bride downstairs. Do you suppose she would sleep in the attic? Not a bit of it. And they would just do it on her eccentricities. That is the name they would call them then. I hate it all. I am sorry I came. I was sorry that circumstances had seemed to call for so long a stay. It had been a special petition of Irving's that we should spend a few days with them before the wedding. Monday had been the unusual day chosen for the ceremony, because Irving's official vacation commenced on that day, and as he held an office under the government, he was obliged to be rigid in his dates. The young people coveted the entire time to themselves, hence a Monday wedding. If Mrs. Smith had been a meek and quiet little woman with eyes less keen, it would have been much less embarrassing. As it was, she saw everything, heard everything, and was painfully given to speaking her mind. She was overwhelmed with astonishment at the idea of a rehearsal of the marriage ceremony, which was to take place in the back parlor on Saturday evening. A rehearsal? She repeated in a mystified tone. What might that be? Two of the elegant guests giggled together, one of the aristocratic aunts frowned, and Laura explained. But what do they want to do it for? They surely know how to stand up in a room together and promise to love each other without saying it over beforehand, like children do their school pieces. I should think they would want to do the repeating of it just to each other and let the outsiders have their turn once for all. The little bride blushed at this, and Laura further explained that they wanted to go through with the ceremony once with the attendants, lest someone might make a mistake, and that would be embarrassing in public. But the dear old lady shook her gray head emphatically over this. Too late to correct mistakes. If there has been one made, it's my opinion it will have to be corrected before it comes time to make the promises. When Solomon and I was married, we was sure enough of what we was about. Wasn't in the least afraid of making any mistakes. I was only too glad to speak out, I do, loud and clear, so all the folks in the church could hear me, and I've never seen the minute in all the forty years that I was sorry I said it. I hope, Elizabeth, that forty years from now you can say as much. But Elizabeth was pouting. Something in her aunt's words had jarred on her sensitive nerves, and I have reason to know that she threw the Smith family into a turmoil and made her mother miserable by declaring late that evening that she didn't care. She wouldn't have that horrid old thing at her wedding so now. She wouldn't be married at all if she had got to be there, and they would see what a horrid fuss that would make. The rehearsal, however, took place, the younger portion of the household attending, and pronouncing it all perfectly lovely, while Mrs. Smith sat upstairs with me and expressed her views. I don't like it. I can't help thinking it is all satin, and flowers, and frosting, and make-believe. I don't mean that she don't love him, poor young thing. It is plain to be seen that she does, and he watches over her with them great eyes of his wherever she turns. But there don't seem to be anything solemn and earnest about it. The idea of rehearsing such solemn promises as them are. I wonder if they have the prayer and all set over, for fear some of the words won't be in the right place. I don't like it. But Mrs. Smith, I hasten to explain, they don't rehearse the ceremony exactly. The idea is simply to see if their positions are understood and are pleasantly arranged, and if I'll understand about the moves to be made. Well, she said, after having paused in her knitting to fix her earnest gray eyes on me while I talked. Eyes which, some way, embarrassed me so much I could hardly finish the sentence. I'm an ignorant old folgy, I daresay. It may be all right, but I don't see how they can do it. I wouldn't have liked folks a-peeking around to see whether Solomon and I stood just in the right place and winked just when we should and all that. Bless your heart! What do you suppose we cared whether we stood right or wrong, so long as we heard the minister say, I pronounce you husband and wife, and joined with him to ask the Lord's blessing? I daresay it is the thing to do nowadays. Times change, but I don't believe I could have done it. My room was directly over the parlours, and the hall doors were open, so from time to time we were entertained by outbursts of merriment from below. A marriage rehearsal certainly seemed to be a very amusing thing. I went over, in memory, the solemn and tender words of the marriage ceremony with its terribly suggestive sentence, until death us do part, and I wondered whether Irving and Lida, when they repeated the formula on Monday evening, would be able to hold their minds away from the frolic in which they had been repeated on Saturday evening. Modern fashionable society is a curious thing, full of new devices. Perhaps one of the most innocent is the rehearsing of solemn vows in a kind of pantomime before the hour for the real thing. As Mrs. Smith says, it may be all right. Yet I confess myself in sympathy with her last century views. I found myself wondering curiously whether they would have rehearsed the funeral service if one of the bridal parties lay dead in the house. Sunday morning dawned upon us, as bright and beautiful a winter morning as could well be imagined. I was really in hopes it would rain, murmured Mrs. Jones to me, confidentially, as we went to the breakfast-room in company. I don't know what to do with Aunt Maria today. Poor Lida's nerves are in such a twitter that she declares herself not equal to the thought of Aunt Bonnet in our pew. And I suppose, of course, she will go to church. That class of people always do you know? Query, just what class of people did Mrs. Jonas mean? At the breakfast-table the matter of church going came up. It transpired that a small number of the guests were going out. Indeed, the hour was so late that those who, like ourselves, had not prudently made our church toilets already, could not have done so if they would. Mrs. Jonas Smith declared herself too much-born out with excitement and nervousness to think of doing anything but resting. I was so glad this morning to remember that it was a day of rest. She said, looking around upon us with a benevolent smile, I don't know what I should do if it were not for the regularly occurring sabbaths to take a break in the week's excitements and responsibilities. Yes, her sister-in-law said, with sweet seriousness, Sunday is a blessed day of rest, and to think that the Lord gives a wonderful promise to them that keep it. If thou turn away thy foot from the sabbath, from doing thy pleasure on my holy day, and call the sabbath a delight, the holy of the Lord honorable, and shalt honor him not doing thine own ways, nor finding thine own pleasure, nor speaking thine own words, then shalt thou delight thyself in the Lord, and I will cause thee to ride upon the high places of the earth and feed thee with the heritage of Jacob thy father, for the mouth of the Lord hath spoken it. There was something exceedingly pleasant in Mrs. Smith's way of repeating Bible verses, a sort of exclamatory style over some portions, her face beaming the while as if she were telling good news, and such astounding news as could hardly be believed at all, but for that last fact the mouth of the Lord hath spoken it. My daughter Mary said to me once that she always marked a verse of Mrs. Smith's repeating as something new that had just been put into her Bible, for, however familiar, she was sure to see it in a new way after hearing the old lady recite it. No one responded to the verse this morning. Almost nothing had been said about the manner of resting, yet each person present seemed to feel an incongruity between Mrs. Jonas Smith's way and the way which the mouth of the Lord had indicated. That lady proceeded somewhat sharply with her investigation as to who was going to church. The host signified his willingness to escort such of his guests as chose to attend. Laura and I were going, also one of the aristocratic aunts, and two of the young ladies, thought they should if they were dressed in time. This induced a young gentleman to promise to attend them. So, despite the doubtful beginning, our party bade fair to be quite large. I suppose it is too cold for you to venture out, Maria? Insinuated her sister-in-law, but she received a brisk denial. Bless your heart! I haven't seen the weather in more than fifty years that was too cold for me to go to church. I can wrap up warm. My cloak is as warm as toast, just right for such weather. I confessed to being very sorry that it was such a queer-looking cloak. Then came the question of distance. Laura asked about that. Oh, the distance was a trifle, the host said. Not more than five minutes right on the cars. The red line at the corner passed their church. The cars! repeated Mrs. Solomon Smith in tones of dismay. I wonder now if they keep the cars a-going on Sunday. End of Chapter 9 Chapter 10 of Mrs. Solomon Smith Looking On by Pansy The slibber-box recording is in the public domain. Chapter 10 Perhaps she is nearer right than some of us. Of course, said Mr. Jonas Smith in a shorter tone than a gentleman should use toward an old lady, and added, while two of the young people indulged in their inevitable giggle, how could people get to and from church in large cities if the street-cars didn't run? Oh, then they only run them just about church-time? said the old lady in a relieved tone. Well, I don't know, but that's a good plan. Why not, as well as for folks to get out their own horses, and a good deal better for them that hasn't got any horses to get out? And do any considerable number of the drivers go to church? Whereupon the laugh became general among the younger portion, somewhat to Mr. Jonas's discomforture. He had a dim idea that part of it might belong to him. Not much they don't, volunteered one of the young men. Why, madame, Sunday is their busiest day. They don't have time even to eat their dinners like Christians, but munch a cold bite as they drive along. But there isn't a meeting beginning all the time, said Mrs. Smith aghast. She was in thorough earnest. Having fully believed that the cars were run solely for the accommodation of church-goers, there had been no covert sneer in her words. Meeting? No, that is the smallest part of their Sunday work. If they only took people to and from church, they could have half the day for whistling or sleeping. I am inclined to think they would spend it that way, for they have to begin work early and quit late. But they put on a double line of cars on some of the routes for Sunday and keep them going steadily from morning till night. And where do all the people go to? I don't know, everywhere. Half of them go visiting, and some go to the park if it is pleasant enough, and some go to distant parts of the town on errands that they haven't time for on other days. Lots of people go house hunting on Sunday, stare up at the houses that they think they would like, and mark them for next day's use. For that matter, hundreds of them get the keys and survey premises without any scruples about it. Then a great army of hard-working people, boys and girls, factory hands you know and people of that class, ride for the pure fun of taking a ride, going somewhere, and having things a little different from other days. There are places enough to go to, and people enough to keep every carman as busy as a bee in a hive. That I know. Upon my word, Erskine, list one of the young ladies, you would make a good lecturer on moral reform. I had no idea you felt so deeply on the Sabbath question. The young man flushed and laughed lightly as he said. You had no idea that I felt deeply on any subject, I presume. I am not surprised at that, but as to feeling, I am merely stating facts for Mrs. Smith's benefit. Each person has a right to draw his own inferences. They are solemn facts, said Mrs. Smith simply, and shalt honor him not doing thine own ways nor finding thine own pleasure. That's the direction, and it seems a great many people are paying no attention to it, though the mouth of the Lord hath spoken it. There's one plain thing, a Christian has no business on them cars on the Sabbath day. Then one of the aristocratic ants came to the front. My dear madame, you are not used to argument I take it. You ignore the important fact that these rude pleasure seekers, who as a rule belong to the lower classes, have nothing in common with us, and that because they choose to use the street cars for purposes of their own, is no reason why we, who are on our way to the house of God, should not use the same conveyance in the cause of worship. But Mrs. Smith shook her head. That won't do. Ye bring wrath on Israel by profaning the Sabbath. That is what the Lord will have to say one of these days to them Christians that uphold such wrongdoing and help along with their money. Besides, I reckon the folks who go to church don't go labeled, and the drivers and other lookers on have no means of telling whether they are going to church or a visiting. That is a very little consequence, declared the aristocratic ant. What difference do you suppose it makes to me what people think? To his own master he standeth or falleth. That is scripture too, I believe. And she sat back with a severely complacent smile, as if much gratified with herself for having vindicated her side, and produced a Bible verse to sustain her. That's true, said Mrs. Smith in no wise quenched. That's true enough, so far as judging of other folks is concerned. The Lord wants to do that himself, because he understands all the little hidden things that we know nothing about. But I guess it won't apply to folks not caring what other people think of them, because the same Lord told us to be careful about that. Let not your good be evil spoken of, says he, and then he reminded us that we had got to be known by our fruits. And he says he set us here to be lights, so that folks who looked at us and saw how we lived would glorify him for it. I guess it makes a slight bit of difference what the streetcar drivers think of us. I guess, like enough, the Lord will ask us why we let our going to church on his day be evil spoken of by using evil means to get there. I was not aware that I had pronounced the means evil, said the aristocratic aunt, and her voice was several degrees haughtier. Oh well, that don't need any pronouncing from human lips, it stands right over against the command, remember the Sabbath day to keep it holy, not doing thine own ways, nor finding thine own pleasure. Of course, everybody can see that them poor streetcar drivers and conductors ain't keeping the Sabbath day holy, and they're doing their own ways, though like enough they don't see any other way to earn their bread. Poor fellows, I suppose they ain't learned to trust the Lord, they don't have time to think about him. The trouble is, when a Christian man or woman gets on them cars, on the holy Sabbath day, and rides a little while, they say to him, you car drivers ain't of no account, we've nothing to do with your souls, it is your business to take us to church, we're going to worship God. Whether you have any chance to worship him or not is nothing to us. Now you see, the Lord said he made of one blood all the nations of the earth, and he told us to love our neighbors as well as we did ourselves, and he made it pretty plain that even them drivers are our neighbors, whether they are on their way to Jericho or somewhere else. There's no getting away from our duty to them. I could not determine whether Erskine was really interested, or whether Mrs. Smith's quaint ways amused him, and he wanted to draw her out by interposing an objection at this point. But, Mrs. Smith, the cars would run on Sabbath all the same, if none of the church people patronized them, not one-tenth part of their revenue comes from churchgoers, I presume. That may all be true, said the old lady with a sure tone. But don't you see, young man, to his own master he standeth or falleth? The Lord isn't going to ask me why some people helped rob him of his day by making the cars take them a visiting on Sunday. Them that go a visiting will have to tell him their own story and answer for their doings as best they can. Whatever they say won't alter the fact that he will say to me, Mrs. Solomon Smith, why did you help shut them poor fellows out of heaven by putting in your example to help them break my laws? Didn't you know that to obey was better than sacrifice? It was worthy of thought that, quaint and strange as this way of putting it was, something in the tone or the words or the influence of the spirit whose breathings they were, hushed the group around the breakfast table into decorous attention. The questioner seemed satisfied, at least he pursued that portion of the subject no farther, but after a moment or so of silence asked, but what would you have people do? The fact remains that a great many, ladies at least, cannot get to church at all unless they ride on the cars. Do you think it would be right for them to habitually stay at home from church when the street cars pass their door every five minutes? Seems to me I have heard a Bible verse about straining a net and swallowing a camel, wouldn't that apply? Mrs. Smith laid down her knife and fork and fixed penetrative gray eyes on the young man's face as she said, Suppose I hadn't a pair of shoes to my name, and suppose the Lord knew I hadn't no way of earning any, and that I couldn't, no way that I could fix it, go to church without them, which do you suppose he would tell me to do, stay at home or steal your shoes and go? In the midst of the general laugh, which this sentence provoked, she added, You see, I believe that the folks who can't get to know church on Sunday without helping somebody to break the Sabbath, and can't find any other place to live nearby to a church, better tell the Lord all about it and ask him what to do, seeing there's them two bars of his that, of course, it ain't right to break down. Remember the Sabbath day to keep it holy and to obey is better than sacrifice. I don't believe he looks upon his commandments as no bigger than gnats. Even then one of the sillier misses was not quenched, but had a tart question to put. Mrs. Smith, when you lived on that farm you were telling us about the other day, didn't you ride to church? For my part I can't see the distinction between car horses and farm horses. Yes, said Mrs. Smith, taking a swallow of tea from her saucer. I rode to church every Sunday of my life. We got up early and did the necessary work and tended to the critters. We give them a better breakfast than usual, because it was the Sabbath, and packed our dinner in the basket to eat at noon, and filled the footstove with coals, and started. And when we got to the little white meeting-house Solomon would drive into one of the sheds and tie the horses, and at noon he would get out their bag of oats and set them to eat their Sunday dinner, and there they would stand and rest and eat. They always had an extra mess of oats, and if they didn't know it was Sunday it wasn't because they didn't have a day of rest. Other days they worked from sunrise to sunset, stepping spry. But Sundays it was only to take us to the corners and back again, and neither Solomon nor I ever had to stay away from church on their account. Did you say, dear, that you didn't see no difference between that and riding on the street cars? If the deer really hadn't seen the difference, she saw it now, and had wit enough to join in the laugh that followed at her expense. Altogether Laura was satisfied. Her old friend had come off in flying colors. Whether or not her arguments were unanswerable, certainly no one had answered them. She is sharp, said Erskine as we left the table, and he lingered beside Lita and her mother. She is just as sharp as steel. It is fun to talk with her, but a fellow has to keep all his wits at work, and then get worsted. Perhaps she is nearer right than some of us, too. The most complacent listener at the breakfast table had been Mrs. Jonas Smith. I could but watch the satisfied expression of her face, and wonder a little over the kind way in which she declared that she believed in people following out their convictions of right, whether others agreed with them or not. Bible verses seem to be our chief bill of fair here this morning, she said with a pleasant laugh. I remember one that Brother Solomon was fond of quoting when he was a young man, to him that knoweth to do good, and doeth not, to him it is sin. I suppose it applies equally to those who think things are wrong, and then do them. I for one respect Maria's scruples. She is not used to the lawless ways of a great city, and cannot be expected to approve of them. Whether Mrs. Solomon Smith was to be expected to approve of Sabbath-breaking after she became used to it did not quite appear. When we reached the parlors, the reason for her tolerance came to the surface. You must take possession of the back parlor this morning, Maria. It will be deserted, and you can have a nice cozy time all to yourself. Harris, move the large green chair from the front parlor over here by the register. The morning is unusually cold. I don't know whether there are any books down here that you will care to read, but Lita shall bring you a number from the library and you can select for yourself. The picture must have looked inviting. Mrs. Solomon Smith was fond of reading. She turned beaming eyes on her sister-in-law, but answered without hesitation. I don't believe I shall have any time this morning. I've got a little bit of fixing to do, and it must be most time to start for church. O! If you have studied intonation very much, you will be able to imagine how much that O expressed without my trying to tell you. I did not suppose you would go to church this morning, after all I have heard. You would have to ride on the street cars, you know. Bless your heart. No I wouldn't. Jonas said it wasn't more than five minutes ride in the cars, and I can walk as far as that would be without any trouble. O! I shall go to church, a nice bright morning like this, and me feeling unusually well and strong. I couldn't think of staying away. Besides, I promised Solomon I'd hear for him today. He is uncommon fond of good solid preaching. The easy chair and the cozy corner and the tempting books were of no avail. The strong-hearted old lady came downstairs presently, shod in arctic rubbers, which made her feet look nearly as large again as usual. Her long, dark green camelot cloak securely buttoned from throat to feet, her neat black velvet bonnet of a pattern that might almost have dated back to her youth, and a strong cotton umbrella to serve in lieu of a cane. It was still early, so none of the streetcar party were visible. Several loungers who had chosen not to go to church at all, stood in parlor and hall, ready for any amusement that offered. Laura, in her handsome winter suit of velvet and silk, looked like a young princess beside her old friend. We had had but little talk together since breakfast. Mama, she had said with the little ring of determination, which girls at nineteen like to put into their voices, I am going to walk to church with Auntie Smith. Are you, I said quietly, then there will be three of us. She came and wound both arms about me in a caressing way that she had, as she said. You dear Mama, you always do such nice things, and you do them so quietly, without any of the high pressure that I have to get up. I wish I could be more like you. Mama, I was afraid you would go in the car, and after all that had been said, I could not endure to have you. Thank you, daughter, I said, and I could not help laughing a little. The town in which we live does not boast of street cars, and it so happens that the question of Sabbath writing had never come up before her. I had not the slightest idea of writing to church. Your father and I settled that matter long ago, as inconsistent for us at least. And you know that even Mrs. Jonas Smith's decision was, to him that knoweth to do good, and do with it not, to him it is sin. Mama, why didn't you join in the discussion? My dear, did you think our old friend stood in special need of help? She laughed brightly and said no more. Then we went downstairs to wait for our old lady. End of chapter 10 Chapter 11 of Mrs. Solomon Smith Looking On by Pansy This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Chapter 11 Says I, I think there was an unbeliever around. I think it must have been a long five minutes ride on the street cars, for it took us nearly half an hour to walk it. But the church was reached at last, a trifle late we were, and the Smith pew was full with the gay party who had come thither by the red line. We met Irving at the door, looking excessively annoyed. We learned afterwards that he had called to escort us to church, and Mrs. Jonas, in her vexation, had expressed herself more plainly than had been agreeable to him. Upon my word, he said, addressing himself to Laura, I suppose because he did not dare to scold me, I think this is carrying philanthropy a little too far. You are making yourself ridiculously conspicuous by this proceeding. Laura was not in the mood to be scolded. Sensitive to ridicule as she was, it had taken considerable moral courage to enable her to decide on her course of action that morning. Once decided, however, she was, like all persons who have to pass through a struggle, nerved for the occasion. So it was a very haughty cousin who drew her arm away from his detaining hand, and said, We will not render you conspicuous Irving by obliging you to accompany us. The sexton will show us to his seat. And before he could control himself to reply, she had obeyed the motion of the usher, and was moving down the long aisle, Mrs. Smith and I meekly following. What became of Irving I do not know. I was sorry for the boy. Why will young people be so hard on each other? It seemed to me a singular circumstance that the usher should choose to give us a sitting in the pew which was directly in front of Jonas Smith's own. But a stranger circumstance followed. The lady occupying the corner, who looked up with pleasant face at our entrance, was none other than she of the fur-lined circle who had rejoiced over the gift of the little book. She instantly recognized us. How could she help it with that green camelot cloak in the foreground? Her face became radiant, and as Laura had drawn back to let Mrs. Smith proceed her, it was the old lady's hand that she grasped with delight and a whispered welcome, church though it was. That she was a woman of distinction was at once apparent from the look on Jonas Smith's face. I caught it as I turned to accept an offered book from one of his party. Astonishment, incredulity, perplexity, and a touch of dismay. Perhaps I am, like Laura, growing uncharitable when I attribute the sudden, careful attention to his sister-in-law's comfort, which he gave after service, to the fact that one who was among the wealthiest patrons of the wealthy church had welcomed her as a friend. He tried to overcome Mrs. Solomon's scruples to the streetcar. You ought not to walk, he said in a voice of extreme solicitude as we reached the hall. The wind has risen, and I am really afraid for the consequences if you undertake to walk against it. I'd be afraid for the consequences if I undertook to walk against the Lord's express command. She said with a good, humored smile. Don't you worry about me, my umbrellas stout, and so is my heart. I'll get home all right. And she did, for our car acquaintance came toward us just then, holding out a hand to me as if I, too, were an old friend. She would be so glad to have us occupy the vacant seats in her carriage. She came alone. It would be no trouble at all. She passed within a square of Mr. Smith's house. Nothing would give her greater pleasure than to serve her dear old friend, whom she recognized as of royal blood. So it transpired that Mr. Jonas Smith had the pleasure of seating his sister-in-law in the back seat of one of the finest carriages that drew up before the sanctuary, and tucking around her a brilliant furry robe that represented much money, an all-important feature in his eyes. Then he and his waiting party betook themselves to the street-cars while we rolled rapidly away. Fairly at home in our own room, where we had escaped until the late dinner was served, Laura arranged us to her own satisfaction. Mrs. Smith in one easy chair, I in another, then curled herself among the pillows of the bed, prepared for comfort, and began. Well, Auntie Smith, how did you like the church? Why, it was beautiful, said Mrs. Solomon with animation. I liked it. I always do like nice churches, just as nice as folks can afford. I ate one of them kind that think the days when we used foot stoves for warming or for freezing, and had no cushions on the seats, and had high old-fashioned pulpits without any pretty fixings, were better than these days, or ought to come back again. In them days we didn't carpet our own floors, nor cushion our chairs. Times are changed, and I like the Lord's house to keep pace with our own at least. Look how they did with the temple! The Lord had the best use for that. It came first, and I suppose if the people had anything left they could put some of the pretty into their own homes, but not before the temple had all it needed. That ought to be the rule now. I liked the church child. The carpet one thick enough to hurt my feelings. I believe in making the church the very handsomest place there is to go to. Acting as though you loved it so, you couldn't do too much for it. I liked the big organ, too. The louder it rolled, the better I was pleased. It made me think of the ten thousand times ten thousand, and thousands of thousands, and the sound of many waters. But, Auntie, I meant the sermon. How did you like that? Silence for a minute, then a meditative. I don't know, child. Was it a sermon? You see, a sermon means more than just to stand up in a pulpit and talk. Solomon and I got to arguing about that once, and we didn't agree. He was kind of criticizing. Solomon is tempted that way a good deal, and says he to me, Well now, Maria, I'll look in the dictionary and see what's what. We've got one of them great big dictionaries that knows most everything. I never did see a book like it. We had a little one, but my, it don't begin with this. Jesse, she sent it to us for a thanksgiving present. That's what she said. It wasn't thanksgiving, and I didn't know what she was thankful for just then, but she called it that. Solomon got up and went over to the stand and hunted out the word sermon and read it off to me. Quite a long explanation, but this was part of it. That it was for the purpose of religious instruction. That's where Solomon and I didn't agree. I thought a talk about a verse of Scripture was a sermon anyhow, but Solomon said there must be religious instruction in it. Now, Laura, I leave it to you. Was there any religious instruction in what we heard this morning? Why, Auntie, said Laura, greatly amused. I thought it was all instruction from beginning to end. Don't you remember how many original readings he gave us, and how learnedly he described what a miracle was from a scientific standpoint, and the physical, mental, and moral, and I don't know how many more kinds of impossibility that there could be miracles at the present day? I think it was as full of instruction as any sermon I have heard this long while. Mrs. Smith sat back among the cushions and gave a little sigh. Yes, she said, there was instruction. But was there religion? I don't know. I'm only an ignorant old woman, and of course I haven't any right to pass my opinion on a scholar like him. But I can't help thinking that there might have been a different kind of a sermon preached out of that text somehow. One that would help me, you know. I ain't far enough along to understand it, and like enough there was a good many in the same fix. I don't doubt that in the least, observed Laura. I never expect to be far enough along to understand it. Well, now you see, doesn't it seem a kind of pity? Such a nice text! She repeated the words with a sort of lingering, regretful tenderness. When Jesus saw their faith, he said unto the sick of the palsy, Son, thy sins be forgiven thee. Auntie, said Laura, as she raised herself on one elbow, to push another pillow under her head. If you were a minister and had taken that text for a sermon today, what would you have said about it? Bless your heart, child. You do have the wildest notions. The idea of me being a minister and taking a text. That would be enough if I was Solomon. But I own I had the hardest kind of a time keeping my thoughts to listening to what he was saying this morning. They would go eroving off. You see, Solomon and I kind of studied over that story a whole week once, till it got to seeming about the wonderfulest one there was in the Bible. And I kept going over that Sabbath evening we talked so much about it, and a thinking of what Solomon said, and then of what I said, and what he said to that, till I got away off from the minister in the pulpit, and says I to myself, well, I declare Mrs. Solomon Smith, won't you look pretty when you get home? And Solomon asks you about the sermon, a say in why you and I was the preachers that morning. I can tell over what we said, but I don't know what Dr. Bar Mora said. I guess you'll get sent to the city again to hear a sermon. But Laura was not to be turned from her purpose by any side issues. That's just what I want to hear, she said earnestly. Tell us just what you and Mr. Smith said. Mrs. Smith laughed a cheery, pleased laugh. Dear me, she said it would take too long. We got most amazing interested in that story. It was a Sunday evening, and I remember we sat up till 10 o'clock, and the fire went clean out while we talked it over. But I don't see what you found to say. Oh, there's enough to say, I tell you. Why, you see, there's wonderful things in it. We just happened to read it that night. It wasn't in the line of our regular reading, but I got interested in it, as I was looking over the book to find the place, and says I. Solomon, just think of it. There came such a crowd to hear him preach that they stood all around the door, and there wasn't room for any more. When was that? says Solomon. Why, that time in Capernaum, after he had cured the leper, you know. I suppose they had heard of that, says I. And so come post haste to see what would happen next. I don't wonder at it, says Solomon. If they had known what they was about, they would have crowded after him so that there wouldn't have been room for them in the streets. The wonderfulest thing about it all was that they let him go through the world as he did, traveling around, kind of homeless, and without a great many friends that amounted to much. It makes me kind of mad when I think of it, says Solomon, and he leaned over and poked the coals. Solomon always pokes the coals when he gets excited. No matter if the fire is burning just as bright as it can, them coals have got to be poked. But I went on with my reading, and says I. This was the time they brought the man that had the palsy, you know, for of his friends brought him. What a time they must have had a getting of him started! I wonder if he had a wife, and if she put in and helped and went along, or stayed at home, and waited and watched to see what would come of it. I suppose there was a great deal of talk before they started, says I. And says Solomon. Yes, I suppose they came up to it by degrees like. First one of them said, Jesus of Nazareth is here again, and they say he has been doing wonderful things, curing the leprosy and all that. And then, like enough, he looked at the sick man and said, I wish he could see him. And I think maybe somebody shook his head and said, Oh, there ain't no hope for him. Whoever heard of the palsy being cured. Then I put in a word, says I. Yes, and I daresay there was somebody to throw cold water on the idea by saying they didn't believe a word of all those doings. It was a likely story that Jesus of Nazareth could cure diseases that the learned doctors couldn't touch. Why, he was only a carpenter's son. What advantages had he? Solomon laughed and says he. You always think there's a croaker around, don't you, Maria? Says I. I think there was an unbeliever around. There seemed to be more of them than of any other kind of folks when he was here. But go on, says I. I like to hear what you think they did. Well, he went on to say that he thought they worked up the notion little by little of taking the man down to the meeting. He said he hadn't much doubt that it didn't come to them on the sudden, but they kept a wishing and a wishing and hearing of wonderful things and turning of it over in their minds how the two could be got together, until finally one of them up and said, Let's take him down there on a bed. I'll carry one end and you'll take the other. And he said he reckoned after they had overcome all the objections and got started and got to pretty near the door and found they could not get in. Some was for turning around and going back. Says I. Yes, I can hear them. They said there was no use. He couldn't be got into such a crowd as that. And it wasn't a might likely it would do any good any way. But Solomon said he had no idea that them four men who was carrying the bed said any such thing. Says he. I believe their faith kept a growing stronger with every step they took. Because don't you see, they acted on what faith they had. And if it wasn't any bigger than a grain of mustard seed when they started, it got a pretty good growth by the time they got to the meeting. And when the folks began to say to them that they had done all they could, and had better just take the poor fellow home as quiet as possible, I have an idea that them men shook their heads and said, He shall be got to Jesus now if we have to tear this house down to do it. And that gives one of them a thought. And says he, Boys, this kind of roof comes off easy. Let's lift it and let him down right into the midst of them. I'll tell you what it is, I believe he can cure him. And then I think the others nodded their heads and said, So do I and I. Somehow I've kept feeling it stronger and stronger since we came along. Because, says Solomon, you see it says he saw their faith. So they must have had it. I reckon too that the sick man looked at them and smiled all over his face. He felt the faith growing up in his heart fast. What do you suppose them Pharisees thought when they see that bed coming down through the roof? Says Solomon. And says I. Why, it's easy enough to tell what they thought. Says they. If here don't come a bed, and that wretched sinner who was took with the palsy so long ago is in it. What a ridiculous thing. As if everybody didn't know that palsy couldn't be cured. And as if this miserable fellow was worth curing anyhow. Such fanatics. That's what comes of letting this fellow preach and draw crowds around him. Now I want to tell you just what Solomon said to me then, because I remember it very particular. Says he, Maria. And his voice sounded kind of strange. Maria, don't you think it is most like being irreverent to speak of the Lord Jesus and call him this fellow? For a minute I was beat. Not that I thought I'd done anything wrong. But it struck me all of a sudden as being awful. Says I. Solomon Smith, I do. I think it was dreadful, dreadful. It was all of a peace with the crown of thorns, and the spitting in his face and saying, ah ha, ah ha. But don't you know they did it? And as for this fellow they said, we know not from whence he is. I was only telling you what I thought more than likely they said. Not that I would say it for ten thousand worlds. I ain't a Pharisee. And says Solomon. That's true, Maria. And he gave the coals a poke. CHAPTER XII I suppose likely he knows what he meant. But I'm beat if I do. Go on, please! said Laura, as Mrs. Smith paused in meditative mood. She laughed pleasantly. Well, I don't know if there is much to go on about, child. You see, it was just our talk. Solomon said he to give most anything to be there when that man hopped up and picked up his bed and walked out. He said he guessed the crowd made way for him. Then I said, I most wondered that when Jesus told him to arise and take up his bed and go home, that he didn't say, Why, I can't walk. I've got the palsy. I ain't stirred a step in two years. But Solomon shook his head. No, he said. By that time the little stream of faith had got to be a river. And the man felt it plunging along all through his body, and knew he could walk. And then says he, Only think, Maria, what was walking and carrying of his bed compared with what he got. Thy sins are forgiven thee. Oh my, says he, seems to me if I could hear him say that to me, I should jump right up and down and shout so that they could hear me down at the corners. Says I, Why, Solomon, haven't you heard him? I can hear him for you just as plain. Sometimes for myself I'm kind of in doubt, but I never am for you. Then Solomon he laughed a little while he says to me, Hast thou faith, have it to thyself? And then we had our little joke about resting scripture. And, Why, the fact is, child, if I should keep on talking till supper time I couldn't begin to tell you all we said, but you see it wasn't a sermon. I don't know, said Laura, seems to me it was the kind of sermon that I should like to hear. Well, I don't deny we found it profitable to us. We are only common folks, you know. Solomon had me notice what the effect of this man's faith was on the crowd. They was all amazed, you know, and glorified God, and said, We never saw anything like this before in our lives. And says he, I suppose if we had grown faith like a grain of mustard seed, that doesn't stay a grain after it is planted, but grows up into a tree. If we was like that, we could keep amazing folks all the time. They would say they never saw the like, and they would have to glorify God whether they wanted to or not. The trouble is, we ain't mustard trees at all, but poor little dwarf plants. We don't die outright, and that's about all that can be said of us. But I kept to going back to that wife at home. I made up my mind he had a wife, and I saw her sitting by the window, watching with her heart in her mouth. I knew just exactly how she felt. I think she had a little faith, just a shred, that kind of imitation stuff that we named faith. I think maybe she said, Sure, what an idiot I am for expecting that anybody can cure him. Haven't the doctors told me this long time that there wasn't any hope? It was real silly of me to consent to his going. Just as like as not, the excitement will make him worse. But then there was Peter's mother-in-law. She was very sick. I saw her myself, and I thought she couldn't get well. And that very afternoon I heard of her going around the house, helping to get supper for Jesus. But then a fever ain't the palsy. That's the way I run on to Solomon. Of course I didn't know things was actually that way. But when they might have been, and it's more than likely they was, and it didn't do no harm anyhow, just made it all seem more real and natural to me. And Solomon said he liked it. So do we, said Laura, laughing, yet reaching for her handkerchief. What did you think she said when she heard the news? Why, I kind of thought that as he walked home carrying his bed, a great crowd followed him, and the boys kept shouting. There were boys along, you may be sure, and it ain't no ways likely that they kept still. And I thought, maybe she looked out of the window to see what was to pay, and says she, What can all that crowd be for? What's happened now? They act as though they was coming here, and who is it that they are crowding around? Why, if that, it can't be. And yes it is, I'd know him anywhere. He's walking just as straight and fast as ever he did in his life, and he's carrying his bed. Well, then we went to arguing about her. Solomon thought like enough she fainted, but I didn't. I thought she rushed out and joined that crowd, and got hold of his arm somehow, and took one end of that bed. And the way they all got into that house again, I don't believe none of them know to this day. After that we got to talking about which of them all we would like to have been, and Solomon said, next to being the man himself, with all his sins forgiven, he would have liked to have been one of the four who helped take him to Jesus. Then says he, Only hear us, Maria, two old simpletons, just as if we couldn't hear his voice today if we wanted to, and hadn't heard it many a time for that matter. And just as though we couldn't keep bringing our friends to him all the time, no crowd to hinder our getting in, no roof to tear down before we can get to him, except the roof of our pride and unbelief. Yes, says I, and for the matter of that we need to take ourselves to him to get cured from the palsy. It's a kind of palsy that keeps our hands and feet and tongues from doing what they ought to a great deal of the time. The palsy is incurable to this day, except by that same Jesus of Nazareth. It is a good thing he is the same yesterday, today, and forever. And yet we cannot take our friends to him to be cured of bodily disease. Laura said, and her voice was tremulous. I knew she was thinking of a dear friend over whose case human physicians had passed adverse judgment. Mrs. Smith's eyes grew brighter, and she sat erect. I should like to know why not, she said with energy. I can't find any place in the Bible where it says he has lost his power over the bodies or lost his willingness to help us. According to my notion, not a body gets over a sickness or an accident unless he wills to have it so. If the doctors did it, they'd always do it, and there wouldn't be no use in anybody dying. Of course, he uses means. That's no more than he always did. I wonder if he didn't make clay and put it on the blind man's eyes and tell the man with the withered hand to stretch it forth and call on the people to roll away the stone from Lazarus's grave. I do suppose he could have rolled that stone away himself without any of their help if he had wanted to, but he was willing to let them put in their means just as he is now. Folks talks as if means was something that they got up for themselves without any of his help. I wonder where they got their brains and their plants and minerals, and the land knows what not to work with. I suppose they all come by chance. But aunty, didn't you hear Dr. Barmore say that the age of miracles was long past? Yes, said Mrs. Smith, settling back among the cushions. But I don't know how he found out. I don't find no such verse in the Bible. We talked up that very thing Solomon and I. He asked me if I thought Jesus often cured people like that nowadays, and I said I didn't know as he often did it. That the world nowadays was very much like that country in which he couldn't do many mighty works because of their unbelief. But, says I, we know he sometimes does such works. Well, Solomon had just been down to the city. He went with a drove, and was coming back by the boat, and he got belated, and the boat went off and left him. And there wasn't no way but to stay in the city over Sunday, or else ride on the cars all night and get home Sunday morning. Of course he couldn't do that, so he stayed. And he went to hear a DD preach. And says he, Maria, that minister that I heard last Sunday, said there wasn't any miracles nowadays. What is a miracle, says I. And he was still for a minute, and then he said he reckoned we'd better ask the big book. So he turned to it again, and we learned the definition by heart. An event or effect contrary to the established constitution and course of things, or a deviation from the known laws of nature. She recited the large worded sentence carefully, as a schoolboy recites a difficult paragraph in history. Well, we had to study over that answer, and hunt out the meaning of two or three words. But, by and by, we got it pretty well simmered down, that a miracle was something different from what was happening all the time, and something that human beings couldn't do. But it didn't seem to me that that proved anything. Who would be more likely than God to do something different if he chose? And as to the established course of things, who established them? Who made the laws of nature, I'd like to know? That man this morning talked about the laws of nature and the established order of events, as though he had established them himself, or some of them scientific men he talked about had done it, and even God hadn't a right to touch him. But I ain't going to criticize him. I can't, because I didn't understand half the time what he was driving at. It might all have been true what he meant, and I suppose likely he knows what he meant, but I'm beat if I do. I couldn't help wishing he would prophesy a little. Don't you know, dear, how Paul says, he that speaketh in an unknown tongue edifyeth himself, but he that prophesyeth edifyeth the church? Well, I got to thinking about that, and I kept on. Says Paul, except he utter words by the tongue easy to be understood, how shall it be known what is spoken? Ye shall speak into the air. Paul knew plenty of languages. One of the things he thanked God for was that he spoke with tongues more than any of them. But says he, in the church I had rather speak five words with my understanding, that by my voice I might teach others also, than ten thousand words in an unknown tongue. But, Auntie, do you really believe that people are ever cured nowadays as suddenly as that man was? Why not, child, because it would be a miracle? I ain't afraid of that. You see, a miracle is just what it always was. If it is contrary to the established order of things now, why it was then? And if God went contrary to the established order of things eighteen hundred years ago, he is able to do it now. And there's only one thing that will make me believe that he never does it, and that would be a Bible verse that said right out, in plain words, that there wouldn't be any more things contrary to the established order. But then I'm only an ignorant old woman. I don't pretend to know. Maybe they ain't miracles. Maybe they ought to be called by different names. But I know this. Did you ever hear about a girl named Jenny Smith? She ain't no kin of mine, one way of looking at it, and another way she is a blood relation, for her elder brother is mine too, and he has gone to get some mansions in our father's house ready for us. Well, this that I'm going to tell you, I know to be a fact, and them that dispute it don't know what they are talking about. She lay on her back for seventeen whole years, on her back, dear me, that don't tell the sixteenth part of it. She lay on a wheeled cot, with one of her poor limbs bolted down on it, and the sufferings she bore I don't know as anybody could believe. I don't really, unless they knew her, and knew about the suffering all along as I did, and heard her sweet, patient voice, and knew how the Lord sustained her, and helped her to use her poor weak hands, and her clear, strong brain, to support her mother and sisters. Folks talk about sick people using willpower to make them well. There's a good deal in it too. I believe in the will, and I believe in using it good and strong when a body feels sick and nervous, and kind of tired of life. But when I tell anyone about Jenny Smith, and then he goes to preaching willpower to me, I feel like saying, bless your poor little wisened-up heart. It took more willpower for that poor young thing to get herself through one hour of pain and privation and trouble generally, without screaming all the time, and ending up in a lunatic asylum, than you ever used in all your life, or ever will use, because you ain't got the will to make the power out of. Well, how I am running on. The long and short of it is, that one night, after she had been serving him beautifully on her back all these years, and after the very best doctors in the country had said she could never hope to sit up again, much less stand on her feet, this same Jesus of Nazareth, who cured the sick man of the palsy, and who said of himself that he was the same yesterday, today, and forever, set her on her feet in a minute of time, and she has been traveling around on them ever since, working for him with all her might, and a great many folks when they see her and hear her, and know what she was, glorify God, and say we never saw it after this fashion, and a great many others say, give the doctors and the willpower and anything else you can think of the praise, for as for this fellow we know not from whence he is. It is pieces of the old stories over again. They don't mean it, you know. They haven't a notion, some of them, of dishonoring God, but they are most dreadful frayed the glory will be given to him. Last summer, when I was gone to that convention, I met a man who had heard of Jenny Smith, and when he found I knew her as well as I know you, and had been a friend for years, he went to cross questioning of me with all his might. He was a minister too, one of them kind that knows all there is to know, and says he, crossing one shining boot over the other, and looking wise and benevolent. I haven't the least doubt, my dear madame, that every word you say is true. Neither do I, like some others, doubt the sincerity of the young woman. What I think is this. She was a Christian woman, with a great faith in God, and the hope that he might one day cure her kept buoying her up, and her prayers and those of her friends strengthened that hope, and on this night in particular, as she heard her friends praying, she made a tremendous effort of will, and arose to her feet, and found that she could walk. Naturally enough, she attributed it to miraculous power, whereas, if she had made the same resolve and the same effort long before, the result would have been the same. It is all as simple to an analytical mind as ABC, and can be explained to you, see, without assailing the inestimable young woman's character. Ahem, says I. Dr. Wisely, didn't I hear you telling this noon, about the time you had when you was getting up from that eight-month sickness, how weak and feeble you was, and how you had forgotten how to walk, and had to learn over again, just like a child, and how the doctors wouldn't let you take but three steps in the four noon, and three steps in the afternoon for quite a spell? That is all true, madame, says he, as bland as could be, and he wasn't analytical enough to see where he was bringing himself to, and says I. Well, could you tell us how comes that a young woman, that hadn't walked a step in seventeen years, hadn't even sat up in bed, should get up and walk across the floor as steady as you can today, and should get down on her knees, as natural as you can, and should go up and down stairs the next day, and go where she liked, and do what she liked, just as anybody would? Maybe you can analyze the reason why her willpower worked on the muscles of hers after they had been idle for seventeen years, and your willpower wasn't strong enough to help you out in walking straight after six months of idleness. Well, he put the left foot down on the floor, and put the right one over it, and got out his handkerchief, and shook it, and coughed, and wiped his glasses, and at last says he, that is certainly a very extraordinary statement if it is true, says I. Huh, now I should think it was an extraordinary statement if it wasn't true. To think of me, an old woman who has been for forty years the wife of Solomon Smith, whose word is as good as his bond everybody knows, to set up here telling lies about a woman that she has known and loved for ten years would be pretty extraordinary, I think. Auntie, said Laura, sitting upright, do you mean that this girl or woman actually walked all in a minute and kept on walking? I never heard of such a thing in my life. Well, I mean just that. It seems a great wonder, now I think of it, that I never told you about her before. But then, dear me, there's so many things to tell. You see, it all happened before I knew you very well. I'll tell you what it is, child. You must read her books, two of them, then you'll know the whole wonderful story. The first one is named The Valley of Bakka. She wrote that when she was on her back, and always expected to be till she got wings. But when she got out of the valley, why, of course, she just had to tell the rest of the story, and so she wrote, From Bakka to Bula. And at that moment came the summons to the dining room, and our remarkable after-service meeting was concluded.