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your ma, ‘Miss Bugbee,’ says she, ‘I’m a just startin’ forth on the Lord’s business, and I come to you as the helpmate and pardner of one of his richest stewards in this vineyard.’—‘What is it now?’ says your ma, lookin’ out of one eye at the brass kittle, and speakin’ more impatient than I ever heard her speak to a minister’s wife before. Well, I can’t spend time to tell all that Miss Jaynes said in answer, but it seemed some of the big folks in New York had started a new society, and its object was to provide, as near as ever I could find out, such kind of necessary notions for indigent young men studyin’ to be ministers as they couldn’t well afford to buy for themselves,—such as steel-bowed specs for the near-sighted ones, and white cravats, black silk gloves, and linen-cambric handkerchiefs for ’em all,—in order, as Miss Jaynes said, these young fellers might keep up a respectable appearance, and not give a chance for the worlds people to get a contemptible idee of the ministry, on account of the shabby looks of the young men that had laid out to foller that holy callin’. She said it was a cause that ought to lay near the heart of every evangelical Christian man, and especially the women. ‘We mothers in Israel,’ says Miss Jaynes, ‘ought to feel for these young Davids that have gone forth to give battle to the Goliaths of sin that are a-stalkin’ and struttin’ round all over the land.’ She said the society was goin’ to be a great institution, with an office to New York, with an executive committee and three secretaries in attendance there, and was a-goin’ to employ a great number of clergymen, out of a parish, to travel as agents collectin’ funds; ‘but,’ says she, ‘I’ve a better tack for collectin’ than most people, and I’ve concluded to canvass this town myself for donations to this noble and worthy cause; and I’ve come to you, Miss Bugbee,’ says she, ‘to lead off with your accustomed liberality.’—Well, what does your ma do, but go into her room, to her draw, I suppose, and fetch out a five-dollar bill, and give it to Miss Jaynes, which I’d a had to work a week, stitchin’ from mornin’ to night, to have earnt that five-dollar bill; though, of course, your ma had a right to burn it up, if she’d a been a mind to; only it made me ache to see it go so, when there was thousands of poor starvin’ ragged orphans needin’ it so bad. All to once Miss Jaynes wheeled and spoke to me: ‘Well, Miss Tira,’ says she, ‘can I have a dollar from you?’—‘No, ma’am,’ says I.—‘I supposed not,’ says she; which would have been sassy in anybody but the parson’s wife. But I held my tongue, and out she went, takin’ no more notice of me than she did of Vi’let, nor half so much,—for I see her kind o’ look towards the old woman, as if she was half a mind to ask her for a fourpence-ha’penny. Well, that was the last on’t for a spell, until after New Year’s. I was stayin’ then at your Uncle James’s, and one afternoon your ma sent for your Aunt Eunice and me to come over and take tea. So we went over, and there was several of the neighbors invited in,—Squire Bramhall’s wife, and them your ma used to go with most, and amongst the rest, of course, Miss Jaynes. There had just before that been a donation party, New Year’s night, to the parson’s, and the Dorcas Society bad bought Miss Jaynes a nice new Brussels carpet for her parlor, all cut and fitted and made up. In the course of the afternoon Miss Bramhall spoke and asked if the new carpet was put down, and if it fitted well. ‘Oh, beautiful!’ says she, ‘it fits the room like a glove; somebody must have had pretty good eyes to took the measure so correct, and I not know anything what was a-comin’; and I hope,’ says she, ‘ladies, you’ll take an early opportunity to drop in and see it; for there a’n’t one of you but what I’m under obligation to for this touchin’ token of your love,’ (that’s what she called it,)—‘except,’ says she, of a sudden, ‘except Miss Blake, whom, really, I hadn’t noticed before!’—I tell ye, Cornele, my ebenezer was up at this; for you can’t tell how mean and spiteful she spoke and