middle-aged creatures, three too stout, one too thin, put their heads
together in conference. One woman was Mrs. Maria Dodge, Fanny's
mother, one was Mrs. Amos Dix, one was Mrs. Deacon Whittle, and one
was unmarried.

She was the stoutest of the four, tightly laced in an ancient silk,
with frizzed hair standing erect from bulging temples. She was Lois
Daggett, and a tragedy. She loved the young minister, Wesley Elliot,
with all her heart and soul and strength. She had fastened, to
attract his admiration, a little bunch of rose geranium leaves and
heliotrope in her tightly frizzed hair. That little posy had, all
unrecognized, a touching pathos. It was as the aigrette, the splendid
curves of waving plumage which birds adopt in the desire for love.
Lois had never had a lover. She had never been pretty, or attractive,
but always in her heart had been the hunger for love. The young
minister seemed the ideal of all the dreams of her life. He was as a
god to her. She trembled under his occasional glances, his casual
address caused vibrations in every nerve. She cherished no illusions.
She knew he was not for her, but she loved and worshipped, and she
tucked on an absurd little bow of ribbon, and she frizzed tightly her
thin hair, and she wore little posies, following out the primitive
instinct of her sex, even while her reason lagged behind. If once
Wesley should look at that pitiful little floral ornament, should
think it pretty, it would have meant as much to that starved virgin
soul as a kiss--to do her justice, as a spiritual kiss. There was in
reality only pathos and tragedy in her adoration. It was not in the
least earthy, or ridiculous, but it needed a saint to understand
that. Even while she conferred with her friends, she never lost sight
of the young man, always hoped for that one fleeting glance of
approbation.