There was a movement of exasperation on the part of Elizabeth Spellman, upon which Mahlon placed the high sign of his approbation, when little pasty-faced Jane Jackson began a discussion as to whether Carrie Nation should be suppressed, and again an intangible wave swept the audience. There were two opinions concerning that subject, also. Evidently, neither thought this the proper place for a discussion of temperance. When the ushers, who had been busy all evening flitting up and down the aisles carrying baskets and bouquets of every shape and condition to heap at the feet of those who had triumphantly finished, were through, it was noticed that the advocate, who felt very strongly that Carrie Nation should not be suppressed, had reaped a very light harvest in the line of flowers. There was no wonderful basket with a vine-wreathed handle standing at her feet; only a few roughly bunched, home-grown posies fell to her lot, flowers that had not been cooled in cellars and refrigerators, and were not reinforced with stems packed in wet moss. But she happened to be sitting beside Edith Williams whose bounty rolled over and so encroached upon her that it was difficult for the audience to tell where Edith left off and Jane began. At last Mahala Spellman arose and came to the front of the stage, smiling upon her parents, her friends, and neighbours with precisely the same brand of assurance that had been hers ever since she had stood on that same platform at four years of age and recited: “Hush, hush!” Said a little brown thrush. It had been agreed upon that occasion that Mahala was a wonder. The verdict held over. In the first place, standing in the spotlight of the big chandelier that the Mite Society had cooked and sweated so patiently, with such dogged persistence over a long period to pay for, Mahala made a grand showing. She did the whole town credit. Hair that has been carefully brushed twice a day for eighteen years is bound to be silky. Mahala’s hung like spun floss brushed into curls over her shoulders. The silvery wreath that held it in place looked as fragile and white as the silver whiteness of the mass of ruffles and lace that billowed around her. As she lifted her hands in a grave gesture, the women of the audience noticed that she had a new sleeve. Lace edged, it flowed from her elbows in fullness to the region of her knees; from the elbows down to her wrists there was an inner sleeve that was a mass of ruffling of fine lace. The dress was a work of art, and in it Mahala looked like nothing else in all the world so much as a gorgeous, big white rose with a heart of gold—a vivid heart, for her lips were red, her cheeks were pink, her blue eyes were shining, and her hair remained gold.