One man at a certain stage in his prayer always rubbed his palms together, then as his voice got louder, he would rub faster and faster; his straggling hair would fall over his face; the veins would swell in his forehead; and he would reach a climax of frenzied petition from which he would gradually subside, tapering to a breathless “Amen!” Sister could repeat this prayer and his manœuvres to perfection: “Oh, Lord-ah, we have come here to night-ah, to crave thy mercy-ah”--thus regaling us with reproductions of “Brother Aaron” and other eccentric ones--when Mother was not near. Mother herself, though quiet in testimony and prayer, would not let us ridicule those who were not. There were three or four of the brethren and sisters of the old-fashioned kind of Methodists, who were a boon to sleepy children; but as I grew older I wearied of their stereotyped speeches, and felt a repugnance to their emotional storms. In the home, at seasons of special religious fervour, we had family prayers. There was something peculiarly satisfying to me in all of us kneeling together while Father prayed. His prayers were controlled and rational; I never felt uneasy when he prayed; while with Mother there was always the fear that her voice would tremble, as it did when she read touching passages in our Sunday-school books. I could not bear to hear the tears come in her voice, for it meant we would all ultimately break down and cry. Mother loved the Bible. How well she knew it! It was history, poetry, and all literature to her. How interesting she made the stories when telling them in her own words--the story of Ruth, of Queen Esther, of Joseph and his coat of many colours--how inseparably these are linked with Mother’s interpretations! She loved music, too, but none of her family could carry a tune, except one brother who died in his youth. She would try so hard to sing, “Hush, My Dear, Lie Still and Slumber,” usually getting the first two lines pretty well, then would flounder around, unable to get the rest. In church she would start out bravely to sing the “Doxology,” or “By Cool Siloam’s Shady Rill,” or “There is a Land of Pure Delight,” but would falter and have to stop entirely before the end of the first stanza. I have seen her almost weep because she wanted so much to sing. At first we laughed at her--it seemed so funny, and so easy to catch a tune--but with her it was so serious a matter that I learned to pity her.