This usually had a subduing effect, as did the voices at family devotions which issued through the tent-openings. But we were little pagans after all, and many a time did not resist the temptation to pluck at a woman’s skirt, or punch a foot, as we caught sight of them under the half-rolled tent folds, while the occupants knelt in prayer. Not compelled to listen to the long morning and afternoon sermons, except on Sundays, we had to attend evening services or go to bed. But there was much to make them endurable, especially if a certain woman “got the power.” And, anyhow, the scene was impressive out there in the night, the tents gleaming in the distance, and the hymns and petitions echoing under the trees. We went willingly to the Children’s Meetings, held after dinner in a huge tent with its carpet of straw. Certain brethren and sisters would address the children. Many an infant convert would “go forward” amid great rejoicing. The singing and childish “experiences” were interesting, though then our religious natures were fortunately but slightly aroused. I would choke up and cry softly sometimes, but was not deeply moved--the woods being a powerful rival at that early age. But one dear old lady (she seemed old even then) I always loved to hear. She would come in at the side of the tent, Bible and camp-chair in hand, stoop under the tentfolds, wade through the straw, which would cling to her black skirt (the smell of straw always reproduces this scene), place her blue Brussels camp-chair in front of us, and open the meeting with, “Now, Children.” I can’t remember what else she used to say, but that “Now, Children” was so intimate and confidential--not sanctimonious like many who addressed us. Her voice was rich with emotion, but controlled, so as not to make her listeners uncomfortable. (Those good sisters whose voices were on the ragged edge of tears used to irritate me; it seemed indecent; even in my most devout days I never overcame my repugnance toward those who “went to pieces” when giving testimony.) What she said to us day after day I forgot years ago, but her face, her kindly comprehensive glance, and the inflections of her voice became a part of my consciousness, deeply fixed in memory. Years later, soon after entering the hospital where my work has since been, the poor soul was brought here as a patient. Going on the wards one morning, note-book in hand, eager to take the history of the patient admitted the previous night, I found dear old Sister Mifflin, the same who had exhorted us at Children’s Meetings years before--no older, it seemed to me, only more broken, pitiably broken.