But very different were the Sunday enjoyments of Mary's young companions at Miss Baylis's, some of whom had homes in the town, and some lived in the house of business; and Mrs. Davis heard with pain and regret of their plans for amusement and pleasure on the Lord's day, which they considered entirely their own. Displays of finery, and meetings for revelry and gossip, after the six days' restraints of duty, constituted their chief idea of enjoyment, as if the cessation of bodily toil implied also the waste of precious time, the misapplication of other talents, and total neglect of the immortal soul. No longer able, through infirm health, to prosecute her labor of love in the Sunday school, or the district, Mrs. Davis applied her heart and mind, with prayerful interest, to the condition of these thoughtless young people, and watched in anxious hope for some opportunity of usefulness in their behalf. They were her daughter's companions necessarily for six days every week; they were immortal creatures; and they were living not only without God in the world, but in open rebellion against his authority, and rejection of his love. This was enough to enlist the active efforts of a practical Christian. She began with a wet Sunday afternoon. Among the smaller miseries of human life, first in the catalogue of the milliner's apprentice, the shopman or shopwoman, and indeed of all employed in weekly labor, whose hearts have not found peace in Him who "prepareth rain for the earth, giveth snow like wool, and causeth the wind to blow," stands a wet Sunday afternoon. Vain were it to attempt an enumeration of its powers to disappoint, to cross and irritate those whose minds are set upon self-indulgence in one form or another, from the tradesman, intent upon his drive, to the little servant maid whose turn is the "Sunday out." "Rain again, mother," said Mary Davis, as she prepared for church one Sunday morning; "how disappointed two of our new workwomen will be, for they have talked of nothing all the week but a pleasure trip this afternoon." "Do you think they would come here instead?" asked her mother. "Perhaps, as they have not been long enough in the town to have made many acquaintances, they might be glad of an invitation, rather than remain in their own room." Mary shook her head; she did not think it probable that two such gay and dressy girls as Jane and Ellen Saunders would like to come to her quiet home, but she would be passing the house, and could call to ask them; this, on her return from church, she did. She found the sisters sitting at the window, with most uncomfortable tempers and discontented faces, looking out upon the dirty street and the falling rain, making remarks upon every person who passed by, who afforded any possible subject for their ridicule and criticism of dress or manner.