"God forgive me, I never was so angry in my life. The bishop had been talking in big figures, We would have thousands for my voice and Paris, And here was just a paltry sum. Scarce knowing Just what I did, perhaps I wished to see The American who brought the money--well, No matter what it was, I walked in view Upon the landing, stood there for a moment And saw our visitor, a clergyman From all appearances. He stared, grew red, Large eyed and apoplectic, then he rose, Walked side-ways, backward, stumbled toward the door, Rattled with shaking hand the knob and jerked The door ajar, with open mouth backed out Upon the street and ran. I heard him run A square at least." "The bishop looked at me, His face all brandy blossoms, left the room, Came back at once with brandy on his breath. And all that day was tippling, went to bed So drunk I had to take his clothing off And help him in." "Young girls, beware of music, Save only hymns and sacred oratorios. Beware the theatre and dancing hall. Take lesson from my fate. "The morning came. The bishop called me, he was very ill And pale with fear. He had a dream that night. Satan had used him and abandoned him. And Death, whom only Jesus can put down, Was standing by the bed. He called to me, And said to me: "'That money's in that drawer. Use it to reach America, but use it To send my body back. Death's in the corner Behind that cabinet--there--see him look! I had a dream--go get a pen and paper, And write down what I tell you. God forgive me-- Oh what a blasphemer am I. O, woman, To lie here dying and to know that God Has left me--hell awaits me--horrible! Last night I dreamed this man who brought the money, This man and I were walking from Damascus, And in a trice came down to Olivet. Just then great troops of men sprang up around us And hailed us as expecting our approach. And there I saw the faces--hundreds maybe, Of congregations who had trusted me In all the long past years--Oh, sinful woman, Why did you cross my path,' he moaned at times, 'And wreck my ministry.'