It was an
intimate friend, whom she could not refuse to see--a lady named Mrs.
Bland.
"How are you, Mrs. Caldwell?" said the visitor, as the two ladies
met.
"Miserable," was answered. And not even the ghost of a smile played
over the unhappy face.
"Are you sick?" asked Mrs. Bland, showing some concern.
"No, not exactly sick. But, somehow or other, I'm in a worry about
things all the while. I can't move a step in any direction without
coming against the pricks. It seems as though all things were
conspiring against me."
And then Mrs. Caldwell went, with her friend, through the whole
series of her morning troubles, ending with the sentence,--
"Now, don't you think I am beset? Why, Mrs. Bland, I'm in a
purgatory."
"A purgatory of your own creating, my friend," answered Mrs. Bland
with the plainness of speech warranted by the intimacy of their
friendship; "and my advice is to come out of it as quickly as
possible."
"Come out of it! That is easily said. Will you show me the way?"
"At some other time perhaps. But this morning I have something else
on hand. I've called for you to go with me on an errand of mercy."
There was no Christian response in the face of Mrs.
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