In my absence he held converse with my mother as to his regret at
missing me, as to the condition of the weather, as to the age,
attainments, and breed of my small dog, who had apparently been seized
with a burning desire to get into his lap. We afterward found she only
wished to rescue her sweet cracker, which he sat upon.

In his absent-minded way he then fell into a long silence, his handsome,
scholarly head drooping forward. Finally he sighed and remarked:--

"She is an actress, your daughter?"

My mother, with lifted brows, made surprised assent.

"Yes, yes," he went on gently, "an actress, surely, for I see my paper
commends her work. I have noted her presence in our congregation, and
her intelligence." (I never sleep in the daytime.) "Our ladies like her,
too; m-m, an actress, and yet takes an interest in her soul's salvation;
wonderful! I--I don't understand! no, I don't understand!" A speech
which did little to endear its maker to the actress's mother, I'm
afraid.

See how narrowing are some creeds. This reverend gentleman was
personally gentle, kind, considerate, and naturally just; yet, knowing
no actor's life, never having seen the inside of a playhouse, he,
without hesitation, denounced the theatre and declared it the gate of
hell.

In the amusing correspondence that followed that call, the great
preacher was on the defensive from the first, and in reading over two