learned what it was to go to bed cold and hungry, to
wake up cold and hungry, and to have no knowledge of how long these
conditions might continue. But not more than once or twice during the
struggle there, and then only for an hour or two in the physical and
mental depression attending malnutrition, did I regret coming. At that
period of my life I believed that the Lord had my small personal affairs
very much on His mind. If I starved and froze it was His test of my
worthiness for the ministry, and if He had really chosen me for one of
His servants, He would see me through. The faith that sustained me
then has still a place in my life, and existence without it would be an
infinitely more dreary affair than it is. But I admit that I now call
upon the Lord less often and less imperatively than I did before the
stern years taught me my unimportance in the great scheme of things.

My class at the theological school was composed of forty-two young men
and my unworthy self, and before I had been a member of it an hour I
realized that women theologians paid heavily for the privilege of being
women. The young men of my class who were licensed preachers were given
free accommodations in the dormitory, and their board, at a club formed
for their assistance, cost each of them only one dollar and twenty-five
cents a week. For me no such kindly provision was made. I was not
allowed a place in the dormitory, but instead was given two dollars a
week to pay the rent of a room outside. Neither was I admitted to the
economical comforts of the club, but fed myself according to my income,
a plan which worked admirably when there was an income, but left an
obvious void when there was not.

With characteristic optimism, however, I hired a little attic room on
Tremont Street and established myself therein. In lieu of a window
the room offered a pale skylight to the February storms, and there
was neither heat in it nor running water; but its possession gave me a
pleasant sense of proprietorship, and the whole experience seemed a high
adventure. I at once sought opportunities to preach and lecture, but
these were even rarer than firelight and food. In Albion I had been
practically the only licensed preacher available for substitute and
special work. In Boston University's three theological classes there
were a hundred men, each snatching eagerly at the slightest possibility
of employment; and when, despite this competition, I received and
re