d, silent, sure, and the flagellants, like the
dervishes, are noticeable by their absence.

The Reverend Billy Sunday is not a Christian Scientist. The Christian
Scientist does not cut into the grape; specialize on the elevated
spheroid; devote his energies to bridge whist; cultivate the scandal
microbe; join the anvil chorus, nor shake the red rag of wordy warfare.
He is diligent in business, fervent in spirit, and accepts what comes
without protest, finding it good.

Mary Baker Eddy lived a human life. Through her manifold experiences she
gathered gear--she was a very great and wise woman. She was so great
that she kept her own counsel, received no visitors, made no calls, had
no Thursday, wrote no letters, and even never went to the church that
she presented to her native town. Mrs. Eddy's step was ever light, her
form erect--a slender, handsome, queenly woman. When she passed on, in
December, Nineteen Hundred Ten, in her ninetieth year, she looked scarce
more than sixty. Her face showed experience, but not extreme age. The
day I saw her, a few years before her death, she was dressed all in
white satin and looked like a girl going to a ball.

Her eyes were not dimmed nor her face wrinkled.

Her hat was a milliner's dream; her gloves came to the elbow and were
becomingly wrinkled; her form was the form of Bernhardt. Her secretary
stood by the carriage-door, his head bared. He did not offer his hand to
the lady nor seek to assist her into the carriage. He knew his
business--a sober, silent, muscular, bronzed, farmer-like man, who
evidently saw everything and nothing.

He closed the carriage-door and took his seat by the side of the driver,
who wore no livery. The men looked like brothers. The big, brown horses
started slowly away; they wore no blinders nor check-reins--they, too,
had banished fear. The coachman drove with a loose rein. The next day I
waited in Concord to see Mrs. Eddy again. At exactly two-fifteen the
big, brown, slow-going horses turned into Main Street. Drays pulled in
to the curb, automobiles stopped, people stood on the street corners,
and some--the pilgrims--uncovered.

Mrs. Eddy sat back in the carriage, holding in her white-gloved hands a
big spray of apple-blossoms, the same half-smile of satisfaction on her
face--the smile of Pope Leo the Thirteenth. The woman was a veritable
queen, and some of her devotees, not without reason, called her the
Queen of the World.

Some doubtless prayed