My custom was, during those months, to arrive home on the Saturday afternoon train and immediately set to work splitting the maple blocks of wood into convenient fire-wood and stacking a week’s supply in the kitchen wood-box, while my wife held a meeting with the children of the parish in the parlor. Then on Sunday, I would preach two sermons. I had to wear my overshoes in the evening on account of the chill in which the vestry was always wrapped. After this service, my wife would have the supper table spread with preserved pears, hot pop-overs and cocoa. We would linger over this meal, the last I should have at home for a week, and keeping a sharp eye on the clock. At the first announcement of ten o’clock, the lantern would be lighted and the words of farewell be given at the door. Then out into the dark misery of the night, with my lantern flickering my shadow over the houses, and my wife’s lonesome sigh echoing in my heart, I would creep through the storms of swirling snow, which wet my hot cheeks, pass over the quiet bridge to the opposite side of the river and climb up a steep road until the silent, isolated station was reached. Across the river I could see the dark outlines of the village, and in the midst of it, a golden point of light: the light of my home. The train was due at half-past ten, but it was never on time and so I had long waits. The station-master left the station dark on Sunday evenings. He gave me a key with which I unlocked the door and was able to keep warm while waiting. After having lighted the swinging lamp, I would produce a book and let the slow minutes pass until the late train screamed around the corner, as if angry with itself for its slow progress between stations. On the first sound of the whistle, it would be a wild scramble to quench the light, lock the door, and rush out to the train before it pulled out from the station. An hour later the train would draw into the terminus and leave me stranded, four miles away from my dormitory. Then I had to cross over to the hotel, engage one of the rooms and try to sleep till half-past five the next morning; if sleep were possible with such a screaming of freight-train whistles, and such a bumping of shifting engines as prevailed through the small hours of the night. At eight o’clock the following morning, eyelids leaden with loss of sleep and my body weakened through lack of rest, and an inadequate breakfast, I would commence the first of my three Monday morning classes, and not be free from the intellectual discipline again until nearly noon, after which I would spend the afternoon in sleep or recreation. One day the director of social service, a department of the religious work done by students, came to me and said, “Priddy, we’ve got all sorts of concert talent about here. Would your church care if we should give them an evening’s entertainment?” “They can’t afford to do much in that line,” I replied.