At the close of service that day, the congregation did not discuss the minister’s sermon, they were absorbed in another subject:  the minister’s wife.  The opinions were various.  Grave old deacons looked askance at her in her regal beauty as they passed out, shook their heads, and repeated to each other the familiar saying, that wise men often make fools of themselves when they come to the business of selecting a wife.  One lady said she was “perfectly lovely;” another, that she had “a great deal of style;” another, that “her dress must have cost a penny, and she did not see for her part how a Christian could find it in her conscience to dress like that.”

“One would have thought,” Mrs. Graves said, “that a man like Mr. Eldred would have chosen a modest, sensible person for his wife, who would be useful in the church, but then, that was the way, a minister was just like any other man, money and a pretty face would cover up a good many failings.”  Mrs. Graves was the mother of three sensible, modest girls, who would have made capital ministers’ wives.  Why will ministers be so shortsighted?

“But, mother,” Tom Graves asked, “aren’t you pretty fast?  How do you know but she is sensible and modest; you never heard her speak a word?”

“Anybody with half an eye don’t need to hear her speak to know all about her.”

“The idea of a minister’s wife,” said Mrs. Meggs, “with her hair frizzed, and such a long trail for church!”

“She paints, I know she does!” said sallow Miss Pry.  “There never was such a complexion as that born on to a human being.”

Those who did not say anything, who made it a rule never to speak uncharitably of anyone, seemed well satisfied to have others to do it for them, and looked and sighed their holy horror that their minister should have shown so little discretion in choosing a wife.  Just to think of her leading the female prayer-meeting and being president of the Missionary society, humph!

Ah! if there had been one dear “mother in Israel,” with love enough to bear this young thing in the arms of her faith to the mercy seat and plead a blessing for her—­with courage enough to try to win her to see the blessedness of living a consecrated life, it might all have been different.

When Thane Eldred first met Vida Irving he was immediately taken captive.  So fair a vision never crossed his path before; whatever of enchantment might have been wanting in golden curls and blue eyes was completed by a voice such as few possess, rich, sweet, and fine compass; had she been poor it might have brought her a fortune.  When he heard her sing in such angelic strains the sweet hymns he loved, he took it for granted that the words of fervent devotion but gave voice to the feelings of her own heart.  So fair a bit of clay, he reasoned, must contain a soul of corresponding beauty, and he forthwith invested her with all the charms of an angel.  A slight misgiving, it is