So deacon Mills's house was filled with
old, middle-aged and young, who were all soon occupied with the
different kinds of work, requisite for filling a box to be sent to a
missionary family among the distant heathen. Seaming, stitching,
piecing, quilting and knitting, kept every hand busy, while their
owners' tongues were equally so, yet the conversation was not the
common, idle talk of the day, but useful and elevating, for religion was
loved, and lived, by most of those dear and pleasant people, and it
could not but be spoken of. Still there was interest in each other's
welfare, as their social and domestic pursuits and plans were related
and discussed.
There was a piazza in front of the house, the pillars of which were
covered with vines, running from one to another, gracefully interlacing,
and forming a pleasant screen from the sun's rays. At one end of this
piazza, a group of five young girls were seated at their work. They were
chosen and intimate friends, who shared with each other all that was
interesting to themselves. They had been talking pleasantly together for
some time, and had arrived at a moment's pause, when Clara Glenfield
said, "Girls, I think this is a good opportunity to say to you something
that I have for a long time wished to say. You know we are in the habit
of speaking to each other upon every subject that interests us,
excepting that of religion.
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