g
incidents of the previous evening.

There had been an enormous crowd, even greater than that of Sunday
night, and everybody had been looking forward to another notable and
exciting season of grace. These expectations were especially heightened
when Sister Soulsby ascended the pulpit stairs and took charge of the
proceedings. She deferred to Paul's views about women preachers on
Sundays, she said; but on weekdays she had just as much right to snatch
brands from the burning as Paul, or Peter, or any other man. She went
on like that, in a breezy, off-hand fashion which tickled the audience
immensely, and led to the liveliest anticipations of what would happen
when she began upon the evening's harvest of souls.

But it was something else that happened. At a signal from Sister Soulsby
the steward got up, and, in an unconcerned sort of way, went through the
throng to the rear of the church, locked the doors, and put the keys
in their pockets. The sister dryly explained now to the surprised
congregation that there was a season for all things, and that on the
present occasion they would suspend the glorious work of redeeming
fallen human nature, and take up instead the equally noble task of
raising some fifteen hundred dollars which the church needed in its
business. The doors would only be opened again when this had been
accomplished.

The brethren were much taken aback by this trick, and they permitted
themselves to exchange a good many scowling and indignant glances, the
while their professional visitors sang another of their delightfully
novel sacred duets. Its charm of harmony for once fell upon
unsympathetic ears. But then Sister Soulsby began another monologue,
defending this way of collecting money, chaffing the assemblage with
bright-eyed impudence on their having been trapped, and scoring,
one after another, neat and jocose little personal points on local
characteristics, at which everybody but the individual touched grinned
broadly. She was so droll and cheeky, and withal effective in her talk,
that she quite won the crowd over. She told a story about a woodchuck
which fairly brought down the house.

"A man," she began, with a quizzical twinkle in her eye, "told me once
about hunting a woodchuck with a pack of dogs, and they chased it so
hard that it finally escaped only by climbing a butternut-tree. 'But, my
friend,' I said to him, 'woodchucks can't climb trees--butternut-trees
or any other kind--and you know