“No more does Mr. Power; he don’t mind the cryin’ and the smilin’ as it’s nat’ral, but noise and disrespect of no kind ain’t pleasin’ to him.  His own folks behave becomin’, but strangers go and act as they like, thinkin’ that there ain’t no bounds to the word free.  Then we are picked at for their doin’s, and Mr. Power has to carry other folkses’ sins on his shoulders.  But, dear suz, it ain’t much matter after all, ef the souls is well-meanin’.  Children always make a noise a strivin’ after what they want most, and I shouldn’t wonder ef the Lord forgive all our short-comin’s of that sort, sense we are hankerin’ and reachin’ for the truth.”

“I wish I had heard Mr. Power that day, for I was striving after peace with all my heart, and he might have given it to me,” said Christie, interested and impressed with what she heard.

“Wal, no, dear, I guess not.  Peace ain’t give to no one all of a suddin, it gen’lly comes through much tribulation, and the sort that comes hardest is best wuth havin’.  Mr. Power would a’ ploughed and harrered you, so to speak, and sowed good seed liberal; then ef you warn’t barren ground things would have throve, and the Lord give you a harvest accordin’ to your labor.  Who did you hear?” asked Mrs. Wilkins, pausing to starch and clap vigorously.

“A very young man who seemed to be airing his ideas and beliefs in the frankest manner.  He belabored everybody and every thing, upset church and state, called names, arranged heaven and earth to suit himself, and evidently meant every word he said.  Much of it would have been ridiculous if the boy had not been so thoroughly in earnest; sincerity always commands respect, and though people smiled, they liked his courage, and seemed to think he would make a man when his spiritual wild oats were sown.”

“I ain’t a doubt on’t.  We often have such, and they ain’t all empty talk, nuther; some of ’em are surprisingly bright, and all mean so well I don’t never reluct to hear ’em.  They must blow off their steam somewheres, else they’d bust with the big idees a swellin’ in ’em; Mr. Power knows it and gives ’em the chance they can’t find nowheres else.  ’Pears to me,” added Mrs. Wilkins, ironing rapidly as she spoke, “that folks is very like clothes, and a sight has to be done to keep ’em clean and whole.  All on us has to lend a hand in this dreadful mixed-up wash, and each do our part, same as you and me is now.  There’s scrubbin’ and bilin’, wrenchin’ and bluein’, dryin’ and foldin’, ironin’ and polishin’, before any of us is fit for wear a Sunday mornin’.”

“What part does Mr. Power do?” asked Christie, much amused at this peculiarly appropriate simile.

“The scrubbin’ and the bilin’; that’s always the hardest and the hottest part.  He starts the dirt and gits the stains out, and leaves ’em ready for other folks to finish off.  It ain’t such pleasant work as hangin’ out, or such pretty work as doin’ up, but some one’s got to do it, and them that’s strongest does it best, though they don’t git half so much credit as them as polishes and crimps.  That’s showy work, but it wouldn’t be no use ef the things warn’t well washed fust,” and Mrs. Wilkins thoughtfully surveyed the snowy muslin cap, with its border fluted like the petals of a prim white daisy, that hung on her hand.