There were those who could not resist the grim satire of this, but more faces were indignant than smiling now, and whispers of, “Who on earth sent those things?” passed from one to another.
“Sh!” said one. “Look at that, will you?”
It was a relic of the past, a faded pink cloth opera cloak with a border of moth-eaten swan’s-down which sent out over them a feathery cloud at the president’s deft manipulation.
“‘Lay up for yourselves treasures in Heaven,’” read Mrs. Wellman, when the coughing incident to floating down had subsided, “‘where neither moth nor rust doth corrupt, and where thieves do not break through nor steal.’”
They laughed. It was not in unsanctified human nature not to laugh at that. But a seal-clad woman in the fourth row, with a face aflame, looked neither to right nor left, but straight at the garment. She had thought when she sent it in: “It is a nice piece of cloth, anyway, and people like that always know how to dye things. Or she can use it for a baby cloak.” It seemed monstrous to her now.
“Madam President,” said an indignant voice, “is there nothing in that barrel fit to wear?”
The president held up two beautiful little winter dresses. “Yes. There are these. And some really nice baby clothes—for Mrs. Haloran’s boys! The need of a missionary census, ladies, before sending out a box is self-evident.”
She looked in the direction of the recreant Mrs. Woodley, who murmured, “‘Whereas I was blind, now I see!’”
“The next is a contribution to the minister himself.” She handed a paper to Mrs. Wellman, who read:
“‘If there be a poor man of one of thy brethren ... thou shalt open thine hand wide unto him and shalt surely lend him sufficient for his need.’”