poured in. Miss Foot could only advise me to
put the matter before the Lord, to wrestle and to

pray; and thereafter, for hours at a time, she worked
and prayed with me, alternately urging, pleading,

instructing, and sending up petitions in my behalf.
Our last session was a dramatic one, which took up

the entire night. Long before it was over we were
both worn out; but toward morning, either from

exhaustion of body or exaltation of soul, I seemed
to see the light, and it made me very happy. With

all my heart I wanted to preach, and I believed that
now at last I had my call. The following day we

sent word to Dr. Peck that I would preach the ser-
mon at Ashton as he had asked, but we urged him to

say nothing of the matter for the present, and Miss
Foot and I also kept the secret locked in our breasts.

I knew only too well what view my family and my
friends would take of such a step and of me. To

them it would mean nothing short of personal dis-
grace and a blotted page in the Shaw record.

I had six weeks in which to prepare my sermon,
and I gave it most of my waking hours as well as

those in which I should have been asleep. I took
for my text: ``And as Moses lifted up the serpent

in the wilderness, even so must the Son of Man be
lifted up; that whosoever believeth in Him should

not perish, but have eternal life.''
It was not until three days before I preached the

sermon that I found courage to confide my purpose
to my sister Mary, and if I had confessed my inten-

tion to commit a capital crime she could not have
been more disturbed. We two had always been very

close, and the death of Eleanor, to whom we were
both devoted, had drawn us even nearer to each

other. Now Mary's tears and prayers wrung my
heart and shook my resolution. But, after all, she

was asking me to give up my whole future, to close
my ears to my call, and I felt that I could not do

it. My decision caused an estrangement between
us which lasted for years. On the day preceding

the delivery of my sermon I left for Ashton on the
afternoon train; and in the same car, but as far

away from me as she could get, Mary sat alone and
wept throughout the journey. She was going to

my mother, but she did not speak to me; and I,
for my part, facing both alienation from her and the

ordeal before me, found my one comfort in Lucy
Foot's presence and understanding sympathy.

There was no church in Ashton, so I preached
my sermon in its one little school-house, which was

filled with a curious crowd, eager to look at and hear
the girl who was defying all conventions by getting

out of the pew and into the pulpit. There was
much whispering and suppressed excitement before

I began, but when I gave out my text silence fell
upon the room, and from that moment until I had

finished my hearers listened quietly. A kerosene-
lamp stood on a stand at my elbow, and as I preached

I trembled so violently that the oil shook in its glass
globe; but I finished without breaking down, and

at the end Dr. Peck, who had his own reasons for
nervousness, handsomely assured me that my first

sermon was better than his maiden effort had been.
It was evidently not a failure, for the next day he

invited me to follow him around in his circuit, which
included thirty-six appointments; he wished me to

preach in each of the thirty-six places, as it was de-
sirable to let the various ministers hear and know

me before I applied for my license as a local preacher.
The sermon also had another result, less gratify-

ing. It brought out, on the following morning, the
first notice of me ever printed in a newspaper.

This was instigated by my brother-in-law, and it
was brief but pointed. It read:

A young girl named Anna Shaw, seventeen years old,[1]
preached at Ashton yesterday. Her real friends deprecate the

course she is pursuing.
[1] A misstatement by the brother-in-law. Dr. Shaw was at this

time twenty-three years old.--E. J.
The little notice had something of the effect of

a lighted match applied to gunpowder. An ex-
plosion of public sentiment followed it, the entire

community arose in consternation, and I became a
bone of contention over which friends and strangers

alike wrangled until they wore themselves out.
The members of my family, meeting in solemn

council, sent for me, and I responded. They had
a proposition to make, and they lost no time in put-

ting it before me. If I gave up my preaching they
would send me to college and pay for my entire

course. They suggested Ann Arbor, and Ann Arbor
tempted me sorely; but to descend from the pulpit

I had at last entered--the pulpit I had visualized
in all my childish dreams--was not to be considered.

We had a long evening together, and it was a very
unhappy one. At the end of it I was given twenty-

four hours in which to decide whether I would choose
my people and college, or my pulpit and the arctic

loneliness of a life that held no family-circle. It
did not require twenty-four hours of reflection to

convince me that I must go my solitary way.
That year I preached thirty-six times, at each of

the presiding elder's appointments; and the follow-
ing spring, at the annual Methodist Conference of

our district, held at Big Rapids, my name was pre-
sented to the assembled ministers as that of a can-

didate for a license to preach. There was unusual
interest in the result, and my father was among those

who came to the Conference to see the vote taken.
During these Conferences a minister voted affirma-

tively on a question by holding up his hand, and
negatively by failing to do so. When the question

of my license came up the majority of the ministers
voted by raising both hands, and in the pleasant

excitement which followed my father slipped away.
Those who saw him told me he looked pleased; but

he sent me no message showing a change of view-
point, and the gulf between the family and its black

sheep remained unbridged. Though the warmth of
Mary's love for me had become a memory, the

warmth of her hearthstone was still offered me. I
accepted it, perforce, and we lived together like

shadows of what we had been. Two friends alone
of all I had made stood by me without qualification

--Miss Foot and Clara Osborn, the latter my
``chum'' at Big Rapids and a dweller in my heart