The members must each be visited and urged to attend the meeting and hear what Uncle John had to say.
She would undertake it. Of course they would be so glad to hear that the Society was now to be revived and go on finely again. So she thought.
With a light heart and face full of sunshine she started on her way.
The first ring brought a servant to the door, only to say that the children had just gone away for some days. The next door opened promptly as she still held the knob in her hand, but only to assure her that Carrie was not well—probably could not go out for weeks. The third call found no one at home.
A fourth was answered with, “My! I thought the P. S. P. S. was dead. But I’ll see what mamma says. Maybe she’ll let me come.”
A little further on Jennie met an old member and laid before her Uncle John’s plans for a meeting, and all about it, only to receive a stare and, “Who is your Uncle John?” And the inquirer, without waiting to be told, went skipping on her way.
Sometimes Jennie was told, “Don’t get me to any more P. S. P. S. poky meetings;” or, “Oh! I’m invited to a card-party the very night of your meeting. Of course I must go. And there’ll be dancing and ice-cream, and ever so much fun;” or, “Mamma says I can never attend any more,” etc., etc.
A sunny sky is sometimes overcast and the rain falls instead of beams of light.
Do not blame Jennie if she cried. It was such a sharp disappointment.
Thus far not one word of encouragement. Every one seemed to frown upon her, and all the laughing she met or saw on either side of the streets through which she passed, seemed to be at her expense. She was mistaken, but a heavy heart often feels a sting where there is really no stinger.