About this time Mrs. Williams received an invitation to a party, not an unusual thing, but this was a very select affair; the very highest stratum of society.  She was holding a counsel with herself, and doing some very close thinking on the all-important subject of her wardrobe, and she came to the usual feminine conclusion that “positively” she had “nothing to wear,” when she was interrupted by a call from the collectors of the missionary society—­the faithful, punctual collectors, whose visits were as sure as the sun and the dews.  Mrs. Williams had decided that self-defence required her to become a member of that society, afford it she must, in some way.  Her bills for the pottery had amounted to a considerable sum, home industry notwithstanding, and the fact stared her in the face that she must have a new silk for that party—­but it was plain she had dodged those collectors just as long as she could.

What a relief it was to learn that only ten cents a month constituted one a member of the society.  She answered quite graciously that she should be most happy to throw in her mite.  If Mrs. Williams could have had a peep into the collectors’ books, and have seen that Mrs. A. and Mrs. B. subscribed fifty cents a month, and that Mrs. C. and D. subscribed one dollar a month, and others whom she copied and followed were even benevolent to the amount of two or three dollars a month, then Mrs. Williams would have compassed sea and land to procure the money, before she would have allowed her name to be among theirs with, that small amount set after it.  She suggested that she pay the whole sum at once.  “What was the use of troubling them to call every month;” and when they said they preferred to have it in monthly payments, she thought within herself, “Now, that is just like women; they have no business capacity, most of them, travelling up and down, wasting their time, making twelve trips for what they might accomplish in one;” which hasty censure upon her own sex was only another proof that she had not “given herself up to thinking;” certainly not on the philosophy of giving.

Having disposed of the collectors, Mrs. Williams sallied forth on a shopping expedition, in high spirits at having come off so easily, and yet a placid feeling in her conscience that now she had contributed to “foreign missions.”  She spent the morning in weighing the merits of this piece of silk and that, and finally purchased a dress, rich and costly, and some soft filmy laces of marvellous beauty at a marvellous price.  If her poor weak conscience made a protest it was silenced by “I must have it.”  Who shall say that the heathen are all in Africa or China, or the islands of the sea?

And so the busy days went on, dressmaking, house-cleaning, calling, canning, pickling, parties, pottery, and fancy work, time for it all.  How could one think much about such far-away interests as heathen women when her hands and heart were so full?