“Madam President,” said one a little more obtuse, “that is a very singular communication. It doesn’t tell us at all why the barrel was returned.” “The barrel will explain itself,” returned the president, grimly, “and will also interpret the letter. We will do exactly as Mrs. Haloran requests--take an inventory and listen to the Scripture messages. The secretary will read.” Then a most unprecedented thing (for a Missionary meeting) occurred. The ladies in the back part of the room came forward. The president drew from the barrel the same promising hat-box that we have seen, and the women craned their necks. Black velvet and plumes flitted through their brains too, as for one blissful moment they had through the mind of the woman on the plains. Mrs. McArthur handed a slip of paper to her assistant and held up to the astonished gaze of her audience--the old Leghorn. “‘God loveth a cheerful giver,’” read Mrs. Wellman. There was a burst of laughter in which the donor joined--but with dry lips. A second box was drawn forth. It elicited another laugh, somewhat less spontaneous than the first, for it was a child’s summer hat trimmed with forget-me-nots. “‘He that hath pity upon the poor lendeth unto the Lord,’” read Mrs. Wellman, adding sarcastically: “How many loans the Lord needs, ladies, of this particular variety, I don’t know. Not many, I should think.” “There are others,” said the president, unconsciously lapsing into slang, and holding up in each hand a man’s dust-grimed straw hat. The secretary read tellingly: “‘And the Levite that is within thy gates; thou shalt not forsake him.’” There were those who could not resist the grim satire of this, but more faces were indignant than smiling now, and whispers of, “Who on earth sent those things?” passed from one to another. “Sh!” said one. “Look at that, will you?” It was a relic of the past, a faded pink cloth opera cloak with a border of moth-eaten swan’s-down which sent out over them a feathery cloud at the president’s deft manipulation. “‘Lay up for yourselves treasures in Heaven,’” read Mrs. Wellman, when the coughing incident to floating down had subsided, “‘where neither moth nor rust doth corrupt, and where thieves do not break through nor steal.’” They laughed. It was not in unsanctified human nature not to laugh at that. But a seal-clad woman in the fourth row, with a face aflame, looked neither to right nor left, but straight at the garment. She had thought when she sent it in: “It is a nice piece of cloth, anyway, and people like that always know how to dye things. Or she can use it for a baby cloak.” It seemed monstrous to her now. “Madam President,” said an indignant voice, “is there nothing in that barrel fit to wear?” The president held up two beautiful little winter dresses. “Yes. There are these. And some really nice baby clothes--for Mrs. Haloran’s boys! The need of a missionary census, ladies, before sending out a box is self-evident.”