"All day!" exclaimed Almira.

"Yes. That sounds formidable, doesn't it?" laughed Miss f.a.n.n.y. "But I'll tell you about it. We are going to sew for a home missionary family. You must know that Mrs. Thurston, after spending the best part of her life and the greater part of her strength in the foreign field, still does all, in fact, more than her poor health will allow her to do for missions both at home and abroad. She heard the other day that a missionary family, acquaintances of hers, in Nebraska, had been burnt out, and lost everything but the clothes they had on. She told us about them with tears in her eyes, and some of us discovered she was laying aside some of her own clothes for the missionary's wife and planning how she could squeeze out a little money--for she is not rich by any means--to buy some clothes for the children. Well, the result was we took up a collection of clothes and money at the hotel, and Mrs.

Thurston got Mr. Dutton to go to Trout Run and telegraph to the Mission Board that this missionary is connected with that we would send a box of things in a few days that will keep the family going until some church can send them a good large box."

"But how will you know what kind of garments to send?" asked Mrs.

Ashford. "I mean, what sizes?"

"Mrs. Thurston knows all about how many children there are, and their ages, so we can guess at their sizes."

Mrs. Ashford, discovering there was a little girl near Freddie's age, and as he was, of course, yet in "girl's clothes," said she could spare a couple of his suits, having brought an ample supply. Some of Marty's clothes also were found available.

"We have had some things given us for the lady," said Miss f.a.n.n.y, "a wrapper, a jersey, a cashmere skirt, a shawl; also two or three children's dresses. We have bought nearly all the muslin in Mr. Sims'

store, with some flannel and calico. He is going to Johnsburgh Monday, and will get us shirts for the missionary, stockings, and such things.

Monday is to be a grand cutting-out day. Tuesday we are to have three sewing-machines. Several of the village ladies are coming to help, and we shall be very glad if some of you will come. Mrs. Thurston particularly desires that the little girls shall come."

"Oh, do let us go," Marty said, while Evaline looked it.

Mrs. Ashford could not leave Freddie, and it was not possible for both Mrs. Stokes and Almira to go, so it was settled that the latter, the little girls, and Ruth Campbell, whom Miss f.a.n.n.y wished Almira to invite, should walk down pretty early in the morning, and Hiram should bring the light wagon for them in the evening.

CHAPTER XVIII.

THE HOTEL MISSIONARY MEETING.

"It was an elegant sewing-meeting," Marty confided to her mother when she got home Tuesday evening, "and it wasn't a bit like that one Aunt Henrietta had the last time we were in Rochester. I liked this one best.

There, you know, the ladies came all dressed up, carrying little velvet or satin work-bags, and we just had thin bread and b.u.t.ter and such things for tea--nothing very good. Here some of the ladies--of course I mean the ones from the village--came in calico dresses and sun-bonnets.

And they were so free and easy--sewed fast and talked fast while they were there; and then if they had to go home a little bit, they'd just pop on their bonnets and off they'd go. Mrs. Clarkson thought it was going to rain, and she ran home to take in her wash, and another lady went home two or three times to see how her dinner was getting on.

"Some of them stayed at the hotel to dinner, and all that did stay brought something with them, pies mostly, though some brought pickles, preserves, and frosted cake. And every time Mrs. Dutton saw something being smuggled through the hall she'd call out,

"'Now I told you not to bring anything. The dinner is _my_ part of this missionary meeting.'

"Then they'd all laugh. They were all real kind and pleasant. And such a dinner! I do believe we had some of _everything_. And supper was just the same way."

The hotel, though the boast of the surrounding country, was a very plain establishment, being nothing more than a tolerably large, simply furnished frame house accommodating about forty persons. But it was bright and home-like and beautifully situated.

"Mrs. Thurston's meeting," as they called it, was held in the large, uncarpeted dining-room, and the dinner tables were set in the shady back yard.

The sewing-room was a busy scene, with Miss Dora and two other ladies making the machines whir and groups of workers getting material ready for the machines or "finishing off." Mrs. Thurston, appealed to from all sides, quietly directed the work,--while Miss f.a.n.n.y was here, there, and everywhere, helping everybody. Almira heard, in the course of the day, that Miss f.a.n.n.y was quite wealthy, that she had contributed a great deal towards getting up the box, and was going to pay the freight.

There were several children besides Marty and Evaline. They were employed to run errands, pa.s.s articles from one person to another, and fold the smaller pieces of clothing as they were completed. As the day wore on and the novelty of the thing wore off, most of the children got tired and went out to play; but Marty, though she ran out a few minutes occasionally, spent most of the time in the work-room, keeping as close as possible to Mrs. Thurston, to whom she had taken a great fancy.

Soon after dinner Miss f.a.n.n.y came to Mrs. Thurston and said,

"Now, Mrs. Thurston, if you don't get out of this commotion a while you will have one of your bad headaches. Do go out in the air. We can get on without you for an hour."

So Mrs. Thurston took Marty and went into the grove back of the house, and it was while sitting there on a rustic seat, with the magnificent view spread out before them, that they had their missionary talk.

[Ill.u.s.tration: While sitting there on a rustic seat ... they had their missionary talk. Page 158.]

Mrs. Thurston described her home in Southern India, and spoke of the kind of work she and her husband did there--how he preached and taught in the city and surrounding villages; how she instructed children in the schools, and visited the ignorant women, both rich and poor, in their homes. Often, when not able to leave home on account of her children, she had cla.s.ses of poor women in her _compound_, as the yards around the houses in India are called. She also spent a good deal of time giving her servants religious instruction.

"You know," she said, "it is very, very hot there, and we Americans can only endure the heat by being very careful. At best we sometimes get sick, and we must do all we can to save ourselves up to teach and preach. That's what we go there for. If we should cook or do any work of that kind, we should die; so we employ the natives, who are accustomed to the heat, to do these things for us. Then, these servants will each do only one kind of work. That is, the sweeper wont do any cooking or washing; the man who buys the food and waits on the table wont do anything else."

"That's very queer," said Marty.

"Yes, but it is their way. So we are obliged to have several servants.

But then the wages are very low. Altogether it does not cost any more, perhaps not as much, as one good girl would in this country. They are a great deal of trouble, too. They are not, as a rule, very honest or faithful, and they have, of course, all the heathen vices, and sometimes we have much worry with them. But what I was going to say is, that we do our best to teach these servants about G.o.d. We used to have them come in to prayers every day, and on Sunday I would collect them on the veranda and try to teach them verses of Scripture, which I would explain over and over again. On these occasions a good many poor, lame, blind people from the neighborhood would also come. These people were so densely ignorant that it was hard to make them understand anything, but in some cases I think the light did get into their minds."

Then Mrs. 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, f.a.n.n.y, 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 st.i.tches, the hard-driven machines were silent, having run out of work, as Miss f.a.n.n.y 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 another took up the refrain, and by the time the second line was reached the old hymn was sent forth on the air as a grand chorus. The children came up on the porch, the girls came out of the kitchen to listen. The customers in Sims' store and the loungers around the blacksmith's shop stopped talking as the sound reached them.

When the last strains died away, and before talking could be resumed, Ruth said,