bricklayer, the other a baker on Eighth Avenue. The
preacher she had met in a purely formal way as the
bishop of the flock. She liked Dr. Craddock. He was
known in the ministry as a live wire. He was a man of
vigorous physique--just turning fifty, magnetic,
eloquent and popular with the masses.

Mary was curious tonight as to what the preacher
would say on "The Woman of the Future." The Methodist
Church had been a pioneer in the modern Feminist
movement, having long ago admitted women to the full
ordination of the ministry. Craddock, however, had
been known for his conservatism in the woman movement.
He abhorred the idea of woman's suffrage as a dangerous
revolution and the fact that he consented to treat the
topic at all was a reluctant confession of its menacing
importance.

With keen interest, the girl saw him rise at last.
A breathless hush fell on the crowd. He walked
deliberately to the edge of the platform and gazed into
the faces of the people.

"I have often been asked," he slowly began, "where
I get my sermons." He paused and laughed. "I'll be
perfectly honest with you. Sometimes I get them from
the Bible--sometimes from the book of life. The
genesis of this talk tonight is very definite. I found
it in the liquid depths of a little girl's eyes. She
asked a simple question that set me thinking--not only