“God will accept my weariness of body and contentment of soul,” replied the busiest woman in the bunch. “Prayer is a private business between two—between God and the worshipper; and between these two there are no secrets,” she continued. “Public prayer is the work we do in public, and for the people—for God’s creatures. We have been praying, tenderly and seriously all afternoon, while many who could have joined us in the good work, but refused, will be offering up worded prayers tonight and thanking their God—for what? for escaping real work? for the squandering of a few hours that might have been spent with religious profit in this work of charity? So long as I believe in the religion of humanity, just so long will I believe that a work for the bettering of humanity goes ahead of worded prayer.” “You may be right, Mary,” replied the minister’s wife. “If all women prayed as cheerfully and willingly with their hands, as you have done this afternoon, humanity would be the better for it. Perhaps, after all, the uplifting of the human race is the greatest work we can perform. Perhaps the bringing of joy and happiness to hearts that have been filled with hopelessness and gloom, is the dearest work we can do for God. I am not a bigot, Mary; only I believe in both work and prayer.” For a long time after the women left I sat and pondered. The little hungry eyes of the shivering orphans looked out of the gloaming, and I knew what their decision would be. Their hearts would go out to the workers. When the warm skirts and petticoats and little trousers shut out the winter’s blast, the work of the workers would be appreciated. JOE BAILEY’S RIDE People who enjoy all the great improvements of the age have not the least idea of the inconvenience and the hardships people endured previous to the discoveries of the telegraph and the telephone. As an illustration of the conditions prevailing previous to the above discoveries, I will relate the story of Joe Bailey’s dangerous trip down the river on an ice floe, and his brother’s exciting ride on horse back from Jersey Shore, Pa., to Northumberland, a distance of fifty miles, to alarm the people and bring them to the rescue of his brother Joe. The Baileys owned the island just southeast of Jersey Shore, which is still in the hands of the descendants of the Bailey family—Mrs. John S. Tomb, and Mrs. Carrothers. I do not know whether McGinnis, the historian of the West Branch Valley, mentioned this famous ride or not. I got the story from Captain William H. Crawford, who died several years ago at the age of seventy-seven years, and who was a boy at the time Joe Bailey went adrift on the ice floe. Crawford then lived with his father, Hon. George Crawford, two miles west of Jersey Shore.