re was the
house-cleaning, the smallest detail of which required her personal
supervision, for Mrs. Williams was elaborate throughout; all her
housekeeping was squared up to certain fine lines. If she ever had a
morsel of time from these things, stern necessity compelled her to
spend it in fancy work; for tidies, and soft pillows, and
bracket-covers, and stand-covers, and mats were indispensable. When
Mrs. Williams was asked to subscribe for "Woman's Work for Woman,"
she assured them that she knew already all about woman's work that
she desired to.

It was done at last--the spring sewing and the house cleaning, and
the summer heats had come. The day was warm, and Mrs. Williams, in a
cool white wrapper, had established herself on the parlour sofa with
a book. She had neglected to tell Bridget that she was not at home,
and just as she was in the most absorbing part of one of George
Eliot's absorbing novels, a caller was ushered in. "Mrs. Brown! that
missionary woman again! Was ever anyone so persecuted before?" Here
she had just come to a breathing spell, where she had hoped to take
a little rest and comfort, and now she must be annoyed. To go, was
out of the question. It was too hot; and besides, she did not in the
least feel like going to a meeting of any sort. She wanted to finish
her book; so she told Mrs. Brown that she was very much worn out with
over-exertion, and the day was so warm that she would not venture
out. She should probably fall asleep in the meeting if she went. It
seemed that even when there came a time that work did not fill Mrs.
Williams' heart, Satan was on the alert to pre-empt it, and keep her
from all Christian activity. How he must rejoice at each new withe he
fastens over the heart he covets. Here was a large-hearted,
energetic, skilful woman--thoroughly consecrated. She would be a
power for Christ. Mrs. Williams was not a hard-hearted woman, but she
found no time to listen to the sorrowful story of those who know not
God. She knew very little of it at all, and like her heathen sisters,
was so "taken up" that she "could not give herself to thinking."

When the rage for decorating and the mania for pottery seized the
female mind, it began to dawn across Mrs. Williams' perceptions that
all her belongings were exceedingly plain, that she positively
needed, and must have two large vases for the parlour at least. She
lay awake thinking about it a good part of the night. Something must
be done. Th