present.

Mothers were excellent for mending gloves, taking ink stains out of white
dresses with lemon juice, etc., etc.; but there were certain exigencies
in the remote and exalted life of those who go on "missions" which their
humble though loving skill must ever fail to reach.

I did write home, by the way, for more spending-money. I had been obliged
to send to Boston for a few of the latest novels, fresh ribbons, cologne
water, and various other articles indispensable to the career of a truly
devoted propagandist. I preferred my request no longer as the dependent
offspring seeking gifts from a fond and indulgent parent, but as the
solicitor of a mere temporary loan, until I should be able to draw on my
salary at the close of the term.

One morning, having inured myself to extreme worldliness of soul and
begun a deliberately reckless response to the fisherman's letter, I
looked out through my window to see the Cradlebow trudging manfully down
the lane, with a grotesquely antiquated portmanteau in his hand, and the
general air of one who has started a-foot on a journey.

With a singular readiness to be diverted, I found that the picture was,
somehow, not conducive to further worldliness of meditation; and when in
the evening, Mrs. Cradlebow came in to call, in her mantilla, the
impression thus made on my mind was inexpressibly deepened.

Mrs. Cradlebow was not a frequent caller. She had almost earned among the
Wallencampers the direful anathema of "not being neighborly."

She informed me, while the singers were gathered, as usual, at the Ark,
that Luther had gone to make farewell visits to his friends. He had
three married sisters living in different parts of the State. They had
children. The children were very fond of him, and he was going on such a
long voyage. Mrs. Cradlebow was looking beyond the singers, her eyes
shining clear and sad above the pathetic smile on her lips--

"And he says he shan't come back again until he comes to give me such
pleasure as I never dreamed of."

Those words come to me now, either as part of the endless mockery of
life, or as strains of hidden music, deep and true, running ever beneath
the world's dull misinterpretation.

Afterwards, the choir of voices in the room formed an effectual shield
for confidential conversation.

"You don't know what a good boy he's always been to me, teacher," Mrs.
Cradlebow continued, with a manner unusual to her, I thought, as of one
seeking