accumulation of the root of all evil. The youngest girl, Callie, well, the least said about Callie, the better! She had taken up with the village disgrace, Amos Lawson, drunkard and professional loafer who at one time in his worthless career had served a term in the "pen" for stealing a calf. In a tumbledown shack on the outskirts of Glendale, she and her unmentionable spouse dragged on an outcast existence, the maintenance of which was shrouded in obscurity. But then, allowance should be made for Callie; she was never quite right—as a child, she had been called "simple.” It was a subject of continual wonderment in Glendale that with the arrival of Tom's maturity and the consequent increase in his money-getting powers, his mother's toil did not slacken nor the number of garments fluttering from her lines diminish. She worked just as hard when he was twenty-two and clerking regularly in Dixon's Drug Store as she had when he was a small boy in school, picking up an occasional quarter by running errands. This was the one thing on the spotless and otherwise open page of "Sister" Embree's life that savored of mystery-that Glendale did not understandher silent, concentrated, unremitting toil; needless, surely, since Tom made enough to support them both. On this subject, she kept her own counsel even under pressure of direct inquiry. But she was a liberal giver to the cause of foreign missions and contributed her full quota to the preacher's salary, and whatever her reasons for wearing out her life at the washtub, they were godly reasons. It seemed a sort of sacrilegious incongruity that Mrs. Embree's next-door neighbor and closest friend should be Mrs. Murray, for Mrs. Murray was the village anomaly an unsaved woman, a sinner, a lost soul. It should be noted that these terms are used in the technical Glendale sense and are not intended to convey the idea of wicked deeds on Mrs. Murray's part. Far from it! She was boundlessly large-hearted, and generous to a fault-an angel of mercy in times of sickness and need. So much more the pity that she should be "lost"! But lost she was beyond all human help, for Mrs. Murray was that most flagrant and daring of all the unrighteous, an outspoken "free-thinker”—an “infidel”! Not only did she disavow allegiance to any church she had ever known or heard of, but she had even hooted at certain tenets of the righteous. One of her most horrifying statements rang ever in the ears of Glendale, not only because of its blasphemy but also on account of a diabolical pseudo-logicality with which it was tinged. "Believe in hell!" she had said. "Why sure I don't! I ain't no kid that's got to be threatened with a everlastin' whippin' to make him be good!" Undoubtedly the devil had marked Mrs. Murray for his own. And yet to many the thought of heaven was mingled with a pang that she would not be there. It was hard to think of Mrs. Murray, jovial, rotund Mrs. Murray who welcomed their babies into the world and closed the eyes of their dead, burning eternally in the lake of fire; and many a wet-eyed "sister" and shaky-voiced "brother," in the periodical revivals that racked Glendale, pleaded with her to renounce the error of her way. Though seldom seen at the regular church services, she attended revivals with fair regularity, having shockingly said she "did love excitement." As the wailing strains of "Almost Persuaded" or "Why Not Tonight?" followed the sermon and the "invitation," they were wont to steal down the straw-covered aisles of the tent to where Mrs. Murray sat in the rear-a substantial reef of unconcern in the heaving emotional sea. She always listened with a kindly smile to their low-voiced urgings; but sometimes, when the crowd around her grew too dense and the summer temperature too sultry for endurance, she would firmly withdraw herself from the pleading, praying ring and relentlessly leave the tent, wiping her perspiring face and heaving a sigh of relief as she stepped out under the sky. On the memorable night when eighteen-year-old Tom Embree made his tardy "profession," his mother had said in the testimony-meeting which followed the enfolding of this stray lamb, that her cup of joy would be full, "if only Miz Murray would give her heart to the Lord"! And Brother Murray,—it should be remarked that there was a Brother Murray, a futile, watery-eyed little man,— had roused himself from his chronic apathy of religious meditation long enough to rise and ask prayers of the entire tent for his erring wife. This was after Mrs. Murray had withdrawn. It was a monstrous, an unbelievable thing, that she should remain obdurate under all the pressure exerted. But obdurate she was, surrounding herself with a wall of benevolent stoicism against which Glendale battered its spiritual head in vain. And her ultimate fate appeared to weigh lightly on the prospective victim of eternal punishment. Had you seen her emerge from the door one spring evening at dusk and go through the side gate to the Widow Embree's, you would at once have remarked her care-free and irresponsible bearing. Her walk somehow gave the impression that, without the impediment of avoirdupois, it would have been a skip; and-strange incongruity of feminine middle-age!-Mrs. Murray was whistling! Not a hymn tune, of course, but a frivolous air, picked up from -heaven knows where! As she passed the clump of wild-plum bushes half way between her fence and the Widow Embree's back door, she paused and stood listening. The widow was singing. Against the light window-shade, her shadow at the ironing-board stood out in spare silhouette, one thin arm moving back and forth is a sort of rhythm to the cracked falsetto drifting through the open door: "Shall we gather at the river, The beautiful, the beautiful river— Mrs. Murray threw out her hands in a pagan gesture of futility and lifted her eyes to the stars. Heaving herself up the back steps, she stood in the kitchen door, which her capacious bulk almost filled. "Ironin', are you—this time of night?" Mrs. Embree turned a face of pleased welcome. "Well, well, Miz Murray! Do come right in and set down. It's mighty nice to have comp'ny while you work. Have that rocker there." "I didn't come to set in no rocker. I come to see why on earth you're ironin' when you washed all day. Give me that there iron an' you set an' rest a spell. I'm a tryin' to reduce this spring-before the hot weather hits mean' ironin's the best job I know of to git up a good sweat." Over-ruling the widow's remonstrances, Mrs. Murray thrust her in a chair and began to ply the iron vigorously. Mrs. Embree's flat bosom lifted in a sigh as she sank down the straw-covered aisles of the tent to where Mrs. Murray sat in the rear-a substantial reef of unconcern in the heaving emotional sea. She always listened with a kindly smile to their low-voiced urgings; but sometimes, when the crowd around her grew too dense and the summer temperature too sultry for endurance, she would firmly withdraw herself from the pleading, praying ring and relentlessly leave the tent, wiping her perspiring face and heaving a sigh of relief as she stepped out under the sky. On the memorable night when eighteen-year-old Tom Embree made his tardy "profession," his mother had said in the testimony-meeting which followed the enfolding of this stray lamb, that her cup of joy would be full, “if only Miz Murray would give her heart to the Lord”! And Brother Murray,—it should be remarked that there was a Brother Murray, a futile, watery-eyed little man,— had roused himself from his chronic apathy of religious meditation long enough to rise and ask prayers of the entire tent for his erring wife. This was after Mrs. Murray had withdrawn. It was a monstrous, an unbelievable thing, that she should remain obdurate under all the pressure exerted. But obdurate she was, surrounding herself with a wall of benevolent stoicism against which Glendale battered its spiritual head in vain. And her ultimate fate appeared to weigh lightly on the prospective victim of eternal punishment. Had you seen her emerge from the door one spring evening at dusk and go through the side gate to the Widow Embree's, you would at once have remarked her care-free and irresponsible bearing. Her walk somehow gave the impression that, without the impediment of avoirdupois, it |