had a new outfit as well as a few dollars in cash.

I graduated without any special honors. Pos-
sibly I might have won some if I had made the effort,

but my graduation year, as I have just explained,
had been very difficult. As it was, I was merely a

good average student, feeling my isolation as the
only woman in my class, but certainly not spurring

on my men associates by the display of any brilliant
gifts. Naturally, I missed a great deal of class

fellowship and class support, and throughout my
entire course I rarely entered my class-room with-

out the abysmal conviction that I was not really
wanted there. But some of the men were good-

humoredly cordial, and several of them are among
my friends to-day. Between myself and my family

there still existed the breach I had created when
I began to preach. With the exception of Mary and

James, my people openly regarded me, during my
theological course, as a dweller in outer darkness,

and even my mother's love was clouded by what
she felt to be my deliberate and persistent flouting

of her wishes.
Toward the end of my university experience, how-

ever, an incident occurred which apparently changed
my mother's viewpoint. She was now living with

my sister Mary, in Big Rapids, Michigan, and, on
the occasion of one of my rare and brief visits to

them I was invited to preach in the local church.
Here, for the first time, my mother heard me.

Dutifully escorted by one of my brothers, she at-
tended church that morning in a state of shivering

nervousness. I do not know what she expected me
to do or say, but toward the end of the sermon it

became clear that I had not justified her fears.
The look of intenseapprehension left her eyes, her

features relaxed into placidity, and later in the day
she paid me the highest compliment I had yet re-

ceived from a member of my family.
``I liked the sermon very much,'' she peacefully

told my brother. ``Anna didn't say anything about
hell, or about anything else!''

When we laughed at this handsome tribute, she
hastened to qualify it.

``What I mean,'' she explained, ``is that Anna
didn't say anything objectionable in the pulpit!''

And with this recognition I was content.
Between the death of my friend and my departure

for Europe I buried myself in the work of the uni-
versity and of my little church; and as if in answer

to the call of my need, Mary E. Livermore, who had
given me the first professionalencouragement I

had ever received, re-entered my life. Her husband,
like myself, was pastor of a church in Hingham, and

whenever his finances grew low, or there was need
of a fund for some special purpose--conditions that

usually exist in a small church--his brilliant wife
came to his assistance and raised the money, while

her husband retiredmodestly to the background
and regarded her with adoring eyes. On one of

these occasions, I remember, when she entered the
pulpit to preach her sermon, she dropped her bon-

net and coat on an unoccupied chair. A little later
there was need of this chair, and Mr. Livermore,

who sat under the pulpit, leaned forward, picked up
the garments, and, without the least trace of self-

consciousness, held them in his lap throughout the
sermon. One of the members of the church, who

appeared to be irritated by the incident, later spoke
of it to him and added, sardonically, ``How does it

feel to be merely `Mrs. Livermore's husband'?''
In reply Mr. Livermore flashed on him one of his

charming smiles. ``Why, I'm very proud of it,''
he said, with the utmostcheerfulness. ``You see,

I'm the only man in the world who has that dis-
tinction.''

They were a charming couple, the Livermores,
and they deserved far more than they received from

a world to which they gave so freely and so richly.
To me, as to others, they were more than kind; and

I never recall them without a deep feeling of grati-
tude and an equally deep sense of loss in their passing.

It was during this period, also, that I met Frances
E. Willard. There was a great Moody revival in

progress in Boston, and Miss Willard was the right-
hand assistant of Mr. Moody. To her that revival

must have been marked with a star, for during it
she met for the first time Miss Anna Gordon, who

became her life-long friend and her biographer.
The meetings also laid the foundation of our friend-

ship, and for many years Miss Willard and I were
closely associated in work and affection.

On the second or third night of the revival, dur-
ing one of the ``mixed meetings,'' attended by both

women and men, Mr. Moody invited those who were
willing to talk to sinners to come to the front. I

went down the aisle with others, and found a seat
near Miss Willard, to whom I was then introduced

by some one who knew us both. I wore my hair
short in those days, and I had a little fur cap on my

head. Though I had been preaching for several
years, I looked absurdly young--far too young, it

soon became evident, to interest Mr. Moody. He
was already moving about among the men and

women who had responded to his invitation, and
one by one he invited them to speak, passing me

each time until at last I was left alone. Then he
took pity on me and came to my side to whisper

kindly that I had misunderstood his invitation.
He did not want young girls to talk to his people,

he said, but mature women with worldly experi-
ence. He advised me to go home to my mother,

adding, to soften the blow, that some time in the
future when there were young girls at the meeting

I could come and talk to them.
I made no explanations to him, but started to

leave, and Miss Willard, who saw me departing, fol-
lowed and stopped me. She asked why I was going,

and I told her that Mr. Moody had sent me home
to grow. Frances Willard had a keen sense of humor,

and she enjoyed the joke so thoroughly that she
finally convinced me it was amusing, though at first

the humor of it had escaped me. She took me back
to Mr. Moody and explained the situation to him,

and he apologized and put me to work. He said
he had thought I was about sixteen. After that I

occasionally helped him in the intervals of my other
work.