I lately stood at the threshold of the Holy of Holies of the “Mother Church,” and with a crowd of worshipers patiently waited for admittance to the hallowed precincts of the “Mother’s Room.” Over the doorway was a sign informing us that but four persons at a time would be admitted; that they would be permitted to remain five minutes only, and would please retire from the “Mother’s Room” at the ringing of the bell. Entering with four of the faithful, I looked with profane eyes upon the consecrated furnishings. A show-woman in attendance monotonously announced the character of the different appointments. Set in a recess of the wall and illumined with electric light was an oil painting the show-woman seriously declared to be a life-like and realistic picture of the chair in which the “Mother” sat when she composed her “inspired” work. It was a picture of an old-fashioned, country, haircloth rocking chair, and an exceedingly commonplace-looking table with a pile of manuscript, an ink-bottle and pen conspicuously upon it. On the floor were sheets of manuscript. “The mantelpiece is of pure onyx,” continued the show-woman, “and the bee-hive upon the window sill is made from one solid stone. The rug is made of a hundred breasts of eider-down ducks, and the toilet room you see in the corner is of the latest design, with gold-plated drain pipes. The painted windows are from the Mother’s poem, ‘Christ and Christmas,’ and that case contains complete copies of all the Mother’s books.” The chairs, upon which the sacred person of the Mother had reposed, were protected from sacrilegious touch by a broad band of satin ribbon. My companions expressed their admiration in subdued and reverent tones, and at the tinkling of the bell we reverently tiptoed out of the room to admit another delegation of the patient waiters at the door.