quires it. The Maker of the
heavens and the earth, of the green boughs and of the myriad-faced
flowers must be a lover of colors. But I cannot recall ever having
seen a Circuit Rider's Wife in my life whose few garments were not
pathetically dashed with this gloom of mourning darkness.

So, when we came to Celestial Bells, I say, I had a black sateen waist
and a gray cheviot skirt still worthy to be worn to church and prayer
meeting services, and a sadder blacker gown that had done service for
four years upon funeral occasions and others equally as solemn, like
weddings. These were all, except the calicos I wore at home. The
result was that I must have looked like some sort of sacrilegious crow
at every social function in Celestial Bells during the first few
months. But as the Spring advanced, I took my courage in my hands and
resolved to have a blue foulard silk. It was frightfully expensive,
seventy-five cents a yard, in fact, to say nothing of a white lace yoke
and a black panne velvet belt. But no bride ever contemplated her
"going away" gown with more satisfaction. I pictured myself in it
before I even purchased it attending Sister Z's tea party, _looking
like other women_! I do not recommend this as high ambition, but those
preachers' wives in the remote places who have worn drab and
sorrowfully cut clothes for years will know how I felt. I think there
is something pitiful in women just here. No matter how old and
consecrated they get, they do in their secret hearts often long to be
pretty, to look well dressed and--yes, light-hearted. The latter is so
becoming to them.

But it is in the itinerancy as it is in other walks of life. Just as
you think you are about to get your natural heart's desire somebody
slams the Bible down on it, or gets an answer to prayer that spoils
your pleasure in it. So it was in my case.

It was the first foreign missionary meeting of the new fiscal year, one
day in March. We met at Sister MacL's house. The jonquils were in
bloom, the world was fair, and out in the orchards we could see the
peach trees one mass of pink blossoms. I never felt more religious or
thankful in my life, there in the little green parlor listening to the
opening hymn. The roll was called, showing that we had an unusually
full meeting. The minutes were read, then came a discussion concerning
dues for the coming year. All this time Sister Shaller had been
presiding with her usual dignity. Sh