Thurston told of the death of her three dear little children,
and Marty felt very, very sorry for her when she spoke of the three
little graves in that distant land.

"Haven't you any living children?" she asked.

"Yes, two. One of my sons is a missionary in Ceylon, and the other, with
whom I live, is a minister in New York State."

Then, it appeared, after many years of labor in that hot climate, the
health of both Mr. and Mrs. Thurston broke down, and they were obliged
to leave the work they loved and come back to America. In a short time
Mr. Thurston died.

Marty found out, somewhat to her surprise, that the "big society" her
band was connected with was not the only one. Mrs. Thurston belonged to
an entirely different one, and the young ladies, Fanny, Dora, and Mary,
to still another.

"You see we belong to different religious denominations," said Mrs.
Thurston, "and each denomination has its own Society or Board."

"This Nebraska missionary, now," suggested Marty, "I suppose he belongs
to your de--whatever it is."

"Denomination," said Mrs. Thurston, smiling. "No, he belongs to yours."

"Yet you are all working for him!" exclaimed Marty.

"Of course. It would not do for these different families of Christians
to keep in their own little pens all the time and never help each other.
But as yet it has been found best for each denomination to have its own
missionary society, though there are some Union Societies, and perhaps
in coming years it may be all union."

"Now there's this mountain band," said Marty reflectively. "The people
in it are not all the same kind. I mean some are Methodists, and some
are Presbyterians, and the Smiths are Baptists. I heard Ruth say she
didn't know what would be best to do with their money."

She afterwards heard Ruth consulting Mrs. Thurston about the matter, and
the latter spoke of one of these union societies. Ruth said she would
speak to the others and see if they would wish to send their funds
there.

By half-past four a great deal of work had been done, and the new
garments were piled up on a table in the corner of the room. Though
needles were still flying, taking last stitches, the hard-driven
machines were silent, having run out of work, as Miss Fanny said. In the
comparative quiet Ruth was heard singing softly over her work.

"Sing louder, Ruth," said Almira, and Ruth more audibly, but still
softly, sang,

"From Greenland's icy mountains."

One voice after