She scraped her chair a little nearer--she was a dear, fat woman, that her breathing showed through her abundance. She had on a clean, starched wrapper, too short for anything but home wear, and long-sleeved cotton under-wear that was always coming down over her hands, in July or August, and making you feel what a grand thing it is to be shed of them--I don’t know of anything whatever that makes anybody seem older than to see long, cotton undersleeves on them and the thermometer 90° at the City Bank corner. “Well,” says she, “Calliope, the Reverend and I--” she always called her husband the Reverend--“has been visiting in the City, as you know. And while there we had the privilege of attending the Church of the Divine Life.” “Yes,” says I, wondering what was coming. “Never,” says she, impressive, “never have I seen religion at so high an ebb. It was magnificent. From gallery to the back seat the pews were filled with attentive, intelligent people. Outside, the two sides of the street were lined with their automobiles. And this not one Sunday, but every Sunday. It was the most positive proof of the interest of the human heart in--in divine things. It was grand.” “Well, well,” says I, following her. “Now,” she says, “the sermon wasn’t much. Good, but not much. And the singing--well, Lavvy Whitmore can do just as good when she sets about it. _Then what made folks go?_ The Reverend and I talked it over. And we’ve decided it isn’t because they’re any better than the village folks. No, they’ve simply got in the habit of it, they see everybody else going, and they go. And it give us an idea.” “What was that?” says I, encouraging, for I never see where she was driving on at. “The same situation can be brought about in Friendship Village,” says she. “If only everybody sees everybody going to church, everybody else will go!” I sat trying to figger that out. “Do you think so?” says I, meantime. “I am sure so,” she replies, firm. “The question is, How shall we get everybody to go, till the example becomes fixed?” “How, indeed?” says I, helpless, wondering which of the three everybodys she was thinking of starting in on. “Now,” she continues, “we have talked it over, the Reverend and I, and we have decided that you’re the one to help us. We want you to help us think up ways to get this whole village into church for, say, four Sundays or so, hand-running.” I was trying to see which end to take hold of. “Well-a,” I says, “into which church?” The minister’s wife stared at me. “Why, ours!” says she. “Why into ours?” I ask’ her, thoughtful. “My goodness,” says she, “what do you s’pose we’re in our church for, anyway?” “I’m sure,” says I, “I don’t know. I often wonder. I’m in our particular one because my father was janitor of it when I was a little girl. Why are you in it?” She looked at me perfectly withering. “I,” she says cold, “was brought up in it. There was never any question what one I should be in.”