is full of water, that we may look down into its pellucid depths
for ourselves.

Our minister was not unlike other ministers of the time, and his
seeming distance from his congregation was doubtless owing to the
deep reverence in which the ministerial office was universally
held among our predecessors. My own graven-image worship of him
was only a childish exageration of the general feeling of grown
people around me. He seemed to us an inhabitant of a Sabbath-day
sphere, while we belonged to the every-day world. I distinctly
remember the day of my christening, when I was between three and
four years old. My parents did not make a public profession of
their faith until after the birth of all their children, eight of
whom--I being my father's ninth child and seventh daughter--were
baptized at one time. My two half-sisters were then grown-up
young women. My mother had told us that the minister would be
speaking directly to us, and that we must pay close attention to
what he said. I felt that it was an important event, and I wished
to do exactly what the minister desired of me. I listened eagerly
while he read the chapter and the hymn. The latter was one of my
favorites:--

"See Israel's gentle Shepherd stands;"

and the chapter was the third of St. Matthew, containing the
story of our Lord's baptism. I could not make out any special
message for us, until be came to the words, "Whose fan is in his
hand."

That must be it! I looked anxiously at my sisters, to see if they