Of course “sprinkling” had been the form of baptism in infancy. Now most of the converts were being immersed. Sister chose “immersion.” There was still another form sanctioned by the Discipline, though seldom used--“pouring.” This was to go down into the water and kneel while the minister, dipping water from the stream, poured it upon the convert’s head. As usual, seeking something distinctive, therefore conspicuous (though quietly so), I chose to be “poured.” Not that I was conscious of it then, but I see now that the desire to be different from the herd was largely what influenced me in choosing that mode of baptism. Moreover, I abhorred “immersion.” The sight of it outraged my esthetic sense. It was such a sudden transition that I, as onlooker, experienced: the gathering of the congregation at the water-side was beautiful; the holy songs seemed more holy there; the black-gowned pastor and the convert wading out in the stream while the hymn was being sung; the pause, the solemn words; the yielding body as the minister started to immerse the convert--up to this point the scene filled me with religious awe; but from that point onward it was most repellent--the convert’s rigidity and the struggle at contact with water; the determined push of the minister, as he forced the resisting head under water; and the gasping, snorting, drowned-rat appearance of the victim when pulled out--all this was hideous. So I was “poured,” and it was a beautiful ceremony. But many a time since I have regretted setting aside the earlier sacrament so revered by my parents. And yet, how can I regret it when I remember the strange, beatific mood induced that day by the sacred rite? It lasted several hours. I have never experienced anything like it before or since. It was hard to come down to practical matters on reaching home. I went about helping to get dinner in a kind of dream-state, eager to have the work out of the way, so I could be alone and think over the beautiful solemnity of it all. It was a real uplift of my introspective little soul, and very beautiful while it lasted. Dressing myself that afternoon with great care, Bible in hand, I visited a sick neighbour. She had a bad-smelling, untidy house which I always disliked to enter, though often sent there by Mother with delicacies. I think it was in a spirit of real self-sacrifice that I required this of myself that day. Probably nowadays, under a similar beneficent impulse, I should put on a suitable gown and go and clean her house; but then I was under the spell of stories of pious maidens who read the Bible to sick people. I can’t recall whether I actually read to her that day, but do recall how the dingy house smelled. In the door-yard was a bush of dainty pink roses, and, as she sometimes told me to pick one, I hope she did then. It seemed queer that the only place in town where those exquisite roses grew was in that unlovely yard, amid those sordid surroundings.