Finally, they were taken out to supper by these young men, who had so far come under Mrs. Robert's' influence that they were willing to endure torture for the sake of pleasing her.
It is a long story. I could write another book about it just as well as not.
The main difficulty would be that the critics would pronounce the story overdrawn. They always do when one revels in facts. It is only when an author keeps within the range of sober fiction that he may feel comparatively safe from this charge.
These young ladies represented other parlors and other dining-rooms. They arranged for little graceful entertainments, to which the Monday Club was invited. Gradually others were invited too—good, solid men, and wise-hearted, motherly women. The invitations were select, the “polishers” were chosen with care; but it was surprising to these workers to find how large the Christian world is, and how many stood ready to help if they were shown love.
“It is one of the best suggestions that that dear Ester has given us.” This Mrs. Roberts said one evening when the Young Ladies' Band and the Monday Club combined their forces and gave an entertainment to some of the best people on the avenue.
I have given you hints of how they did it. They were every one Christians, these young ladies; none others were chosen. They worked with a single aim in view—His glory. They took no step that was not paved with prayer. Do you need to be told that they succeeded?
This was one of the reasons why Mr. Colson chatted with Miss Henderson with perfect freedom, and why his bow was graceful and easy when she introduced him to her friend Miss Fanshawe, of Philadelphia. He was accustomed to being introduced to her friends.
I'm sure I hope you wish I would tell you somewhat of Mart Colson. If you are not deeply interested in her I am disappointed in you. She has been such an object of interest to me since that time when I caught a glimpse of her once through the cellar-window, with a gleam of sunset making her hair into gold.
It is a summer evening of which I tell you, and she is all in white—except her eyes; nothing can be bluer than they are to-night,—and except the flowers about her. She is always among the flowers.
I hesitate, after all, to tell you about Mart. Hers is one of those stories hard to tell. Besides, her friend and patron has suffered much criticism because of her, and though Mrs. Roberts does not care in the least, I find that I am sensitive.