CHAPTER I.

THE Sabbath-school library of the Penn Avenue Church was really in a disgraceful condition. For years it had been let alone, until it had finally put itself into that state of dilapidation which let alone things can so skillfully assume. Covers were sadly torn, corners curled, fly-leaves gone, in many cases the first dozen or twenty pages of the book missing, to say nothing of great gaps in the middle of the story or history. Some books had almost every leaf defaced by those irritating scribblers, who are never safe creatures with a lead pencil in their hands. Many of the books were missing, having been swallowed in that mysterious vortex which ingulfs lost things, no person living being able to give a lucid account of their departure. And, to crown all, according to the statement of Mrs. Marshall Powers, who knew most things, "Not more than half the books were fit for a Sabbath-school library in the first place."

Who needs a photograph of a disabled library? Alas, the ghastly remains lie around so profusely that there is no need for more than a word to recall the very bend of their limp covers—those of them which have covers left. Such was, and had been, the condition of the Penn Avenue library for many a month. It had been long since a book had been spoken of by the bright girls and boys who belonged to its Sabbath-school without a contemptuous curling of upper lips. Spasms of interest had been from time to time awakened, and much talk had been wasted in repeating the patent fact—"We certainly ought to do something about our library," the main difficulty being that the effort went no farther than talk; and the day came when a suggestion of this sort would set the aforesaid lips to curling in derisive incredulity. They believed—those boys and girls—that the Penn Avenue library was dead.

Such, however, was not the case. One summer morning it revived. The young ladies' society took hold of it with interest; they would have a fair and festival forthwith; they would spare no pains and no expense to make the matter a grand success, and secure the means for a new and complete library, which should at once be the admiration and the envy of every other church in town.

Do you need to be told how that society hummed and buzzed after that? Meetings were held each week, sometimes twice a week. Committees were formed, and dashed hither and thither through the crowded streets. Worsted, and canvas, and embroidery silk, and ribbon, and beads, and lace came to the front, and became matters of even more importance than usual. The air was full of them, parlors were full of them, tongues were full of them; go where you would, you were destined to hear about "a lovely rose-colored tidy in a new stitch," or "an elegant afghan," the materials for which were to cost twenty dollars, or a "magnificent Bible cushion" that was all a mass of raised silk embroidery that would take "days and days of close work to finish"; or of some other of the endless pieces of fancy work getting ready for the fair. Neither was the festival part neglected. The city was districted, the streets were canvassed, miles of energetic walking were accomplished, and the result was cake—black cake, white cake, brown cake, chocolate, delicate, cream, cocoanut, sponge, and, to crown all, the "loveliest great mound of angels' food that was ever made in this town!" So one enthusiastic miss reported. Think of a company of rational beings, meeting and eating up a loaf or two of angels' food, for the purpose of securing a Sabbath-school library! Cakes were not all! Jellies, pickles, chickens, ham, tongue—oh! What not? If you had looked into the receiving room of the Penn Avenue Church, on the afternoon of the eventful evening, you would have almost supposed that the dear people were making ready to give a Christmas dinner to this great, cold, homeless outside world, so bountiful were the provisions. But they were not; they were only preparing to eat their way into a Sunday-school library for the use of their own boys and girls.

But let no novice suppose for a moment that the afternoon of this day had been reached in peace. If I should undertake to give you a history of one third of the troubles through which the self-sacrificing leaders walked, my story would be far too long. Did not Helen Brooks say that Sallie Stuart's pincushion was a "dowdy-looking thing," and should not be on her table; that Sallie did not know how to do fancy work anyway, and never ought to have tried? Did not Alice Jenkins say that Stella Somebody had marked her sofa pillow "ridiculously high;" that it was really a disgrace to a church to charge such exorbitant prices? And did not both Sallie and Stella hear of these things, by that mysterious process which is rife in all society, and which nobody understands, and did they not both withdraw in affront, declaring that they would have nothing more to do with the Penn Avenue fair, nor the Penn Avenue Sabbath-school? This is only a hint of the miasm of which the air was full.

But one story I must tell you: an "ower true tale" it is. If any of the Penn Avenue people read this, I ask their pardon for making it public, but it should be recorded as a matter of history. It was all about a doll. A great, beautiful waxen doll, direct from Paris, having wonderful real hair, and wonderful eyes that looked as though they must be real, and rosy parted lips, and teeth that gleamed like pearls. This doll was a special grant of grace to the young ladies' society. Mrs. Archer, just returned from a European tour, had brought it home for the very purpose to which she now dedicated it, namely, the library of the Penn Avenue Sabbath-school. Think of the number of children in that Sabbath-school whose very arms would quiver with the desire to clasp such a treasure as their own! Assuredly there were fifty fathers in the congregation who would think nothing of investing a dollar for the possibility of securing it for the darling at home. Nothing easier than to sell fifty tickets, at a dollar each, and let the child whose fortunate number corresponded with the number on the inside of the Parisian lady's Parisian slipper carry off the prize in triumph, while the forty-nine other children held their breaths and controlled their sobs as best they could.

Now all this proved to be very correct reasoning. Hot buckwheat cakes on a frosty morning never disappeared faster than those fifty tickets were exchanged for shining silver spheres or crisp national currency. With great satisfaction did the committee count out its fifty dollars for the treasury of the Lord, mourning over but one thing: "We might have had seventy-five or a hundred tickets just as well as fifty."

Still, it was not all smooth sailing. Murmurs long and deep began to be heard, and presently they waxed loud enough to claim attention. There were those among some of the fathers and mothers in Israel who succeeded in making it understood that they had conscientious scruples against gambling, even for religious purposes. They declared that this thing ought not to be, and therefore must not be. Triumphant were the answers: "The tickets are all sold; what are you going to do about it?" But the conscientious element was in earnest. Something ought to, and therefore something could, be done about it; the money could be refunded, the tickets destroyed, the Parisian lady valued at a reasonable price and set up for sale, if they would, but never raffled for. Great was the consternation—loud were the voices. Give back the fifty dollars! Guess they would, hard as they had worked for it! Great need in being so squeamish! They had heard of people who strained at a gnat and swallowed a camel. They believed, if the truth could be told, the trouble started with somebody who was disappointed because his little girl did not get a ticket. They were not going to give up the doll, not they. Did people suppose they would do all the work, and then be dictated to by a few narrow-minded men and women? The strife ran high; it threatened to rend in pieces the young ladies' society. There were those who would do nothing if the Parisian lady was insulted; there were those who would do nothing if the raffle was permitted. Into the midst of the turmoil came the Sabbath to make what lull it could. The offending lady was carried home on Saturday by one of her allies, and securely locked in the "spare chamber" to spend the Sabbath in repose. Alas, and alas! The day was warm, the windows of the spare room fronted the south; the blinds had been thrown wide-open, the evening before, to catch the last rays of light for a special object, and by some strange mismanagement had not been closed again. The blue-eyed lady in her arm-chair directly in front of the window, looked her loveliest all day; and all day the sunbeams hovered around her, and wooed her, and kissed her, and caressed her, never realizing the fierce heat of their love; and on Monday morning, when the determined committee went to remove my lady to her throne in the church parlor, behold, her delicate complexion was seamed and soiled; what had been red cheeks were simply long faded streaks, extending in irregular lines to her neck; her eyelashes were gone, her nose was gone, her lovely lips were washed out, and she was, in short, a ruined wreck of her former self! There was no raffling at that fair. The money was returned, the doll was patched up, and packed up, and sent to a little niece of one of the committee—the disappointed auntie having bought my lady for a trifle—mid apparent calm succeeded the angry threatenings. Yet, despite all their efforts at composure, the young ladies could not get away from the miserable feeling that the trouble was in some way due to the opposition; and cold looks, and sarcastic speeches, and discomfort and distrust had it very much their own way among certain of the workers.

Well, the fair was held. Tidies, and tidies, and tidies! The number and variety seemed endless.

"Tidies to right of us, tithes to left of us, tidies before us, tidies behind us, tumbled and tangled," paraphrased a young man who caught his sleeve button in one of the meshes and drew a small avalanche of them to the floor. Another, looking on hopelessly at the mass, asked what sort of carpets they would make. And another, turning from them to the pincushions, wanted to know if some of those things were not large enough for bolsters. All this aside, of course. Sales were brisk, apparently, and yet many articles were unsold. The trifles, the small keepsakes, the pretty nothings found ready purchasers; but the pieces that represented miles of silk embroidery, and hours of toil, and were to bring large returns, were still the property of the young ladies when the evening was over. It was over at last, and weary bodies and excited brains sat down to count the spoils. There was a bill to pay at the fancy store for materials; there was a bill to pay at the confectioner's; there was a bill to pay for dishes rented, and broken, and otherwise injured; there was a bill to pay for cream—where do all the little bills come from which swarm round a distracted treasurer at such a time? Unexpected expenses, and enough fancy work on hand to stock a modest store! The bills were paid, and the wearied soldiers went into camp for repairs—mental and moral; and there was deposited with the treasurer of the library fund the sum of twenty-two dollars and sixteen cents!

After that there was a lull in the Penn Avenue Church.