To a certain handful of dear New England women of names unknown to the world,
dwelling in a certain quiet village, alike unknown:--

We have worked together to make our little corner of the great universe a
pleasanter place in which to live, and so we know, not only one another's
names, but something of one another's joys and sorrows, cares and burdens,
economies, hopes, and anxieties.

We all remember the dusty uphill road that leads to the green church common.
We remember the white spire pointing upward against a background of blue sky
and feathery elms. We remember the sound of the bell that falls on the Sabbath
morning stillness, calling us across the daisy-sprinkled meadows of June, the
golden hayfields of July, or the dazzling whiteness and deep snowdrifts of
December days. The little cabinet-organ that plays the Doxology, the
hymn-books from which we sing "Praise God from whom all blessings flow," the
sweet freshness of the old meeting-house, within and without,--how we have
toiled to secure and preserve these humble mercies for ourselves and our
children!

There really is a Dorcas Society, as you and I well know, and one not unlike
that in these pages; and you and I have lived through many discouraging,
laughable, and beautiful experiences while we emulated the Bible Dorcas, that
woman "full of good works and alms deeds."

There never was a Peabody Pew in the Tory Hill Meeting-House, and Nancy's love
story and Justin's never happened within its century-old walls, but I have
imagined only one of the many romances that have had their birth under the
shadow of that steeple, did we but realize it.

As you have sat there on open-windowed Sundays, looking across purple