R XXI

A "SENSE OF DUTY."

It is not so easy to get away from ones self as you might think, if you
never had occasion to try it. Ruth Erskine--who honestly thought herself
on the high road to heaven because she had decided to offer herself for
church-membership as soon as she returned from Saratoga--did not find
the comfort and rest of heart that so heroic a resolution ought to have
brought.

It was in vain that she endeavored to dismiss the subject and try to
decide just what new costume the Saratoga trip would demand. If she
could only have gotten away from the crowd of people and out of that
meeting back to the quiet of her tent, she might have succeeded in
arranging her wardrobe to her satisfaction; but she was completely
hedged in from any way of escape, and the inconsiderate speakers
constantly made allusions that thrust the arrow further into her brain;
I am not sure that it could have been said to have reached her heart.

"Who is to blame that you can not all be addressed as _workers_ for
Christ? Who is _your_ Master? Why do you not serve him?"

These were sentences that struck in upon her just as she was deciding to
have a new summer silk, trimmed with shirrings of the same material a
shade darker.

"_Workers_!"

She did not know whether the speaker gave a peculiar emphasis to that
word, or whether it only sounded so to her ears. Did this resolution
that she had made put her among the _workers_? What was she ready to do?
Teach in the Sabbath-school? Involuntarily she shrugged her shoulders;
she did not like children; tract distributing, too, was hateful work,
and out of style she had heard some one say. What wonderful work was to
be done? She was sure _she_ didn't know. Sewing certainly wasn't in her
line; she couldn't make clothes for the poor; but, then, she could give
money to buy them with. Oh, yes, she was perfectly willing to do that.
And then she tried to determine whether it would be well to get a new
black grenadine, or whether a black silk would suit her better. She had
got it trimmed with four rows of knife pleating, headed with puffs, when
she was suddenly returned to the meeting.

Somebody was telling a story; she had not been giving sufficient
attention to know who the speaker was, but he told his story remarkably
well. It must have been about a miserable little street boy who was
sick, and another miserable street boy seemed to be visiting him.

This was where her ears took it up: