Religion was for a long time thereafter the guiding influence of my life. Conscientious and devout, I was consumed with the desire to be useful. Out of school I helped with the housework at home and at Grandma’s, and helped Father in the Post Office. I do not recall much recreation. Though sentimental, most of my sentiment took a religious turn. The Presiding Elder and other clergymen were entertained in our home during those years, and the silver Communion service was kept with us. To polish this before Quarterly meetings was one of my duties; and to prepare the bread in long strips for Communion, and in the little cubes for Love Feast. One Communion Sunday, being indisposed and staying at home alone, when the time came for the sacrament to be administered, I read aloud the solemn service from the Discipline, sang, then knelt, devoutly partaking of the bread and water (in place of wine). The hour was a real means of grace to me. I have never divulged this before. Much as it meant to me then, I find in myself now a tendency to ridicule that strange little creature, and to wonder if it was not a partial pose, albeit at the time she thought herself sincere. I recall that during the revival at which I was converted Father took an active part, though in a more moderate way than many of the brethren and sisters. During the singing of gospel hymns, the workers would go up and down the aisles and, by a sort of intuitive knowledge, seek out those “under conviction,” urging the obdurate ones to go forward and confess Christ. One night after they had sung the hymn that begins tenderly: “Why do you wait, dear brother? Why do you tarry so long?” the refrain being, “Why not, why not, why not come to Him now?” the workers sought to lead the penitents to the Throne of Grace. The crowded house, vibrant with religious fervour, the reiterated invitation, the contrite sinners making their way forward, were powerful appeals to others with whom the Holy Spirit was striving. As the last words of the hymn died away, Father, stepping up to a certain townsman, and putting his hand on his shoulder, looked in his face appealingly and asked, “Why not, Wilbur?” I recall the man’s stern look as he struggled for further resistance, Father’s quiet, persuasive tones, and, at length, the actual yielding of the man’s body as the tension relaxed, and they came down the aisle together, the man shaking with sobs, while the happy tears streamed down Father’s face.