ey lost no time
in putting it before me. If I gave up my preaching they would send me to
college and pay for my entire course. They suggested Ann Arbor, and Ann
Arbor tempted me sorely; but to descend from the pulpit I had at last
entered--the pulpit I had visualized in all my childish dreams--was
not to be considered. We had a long evening together, and it was a very
unhappy one. At the end of it I was given twenty-four hours in which to
decide whether I would choose my people and college, or my pulpit and
the arctic loneliness of a life that held no family-circle. It did not
require twenty-four hours of reflection to convince me that I must go my
solitary way.

That year I preached thirty-six times, at each of the presiding
elder's appointments; and the following spring, at the annual Methodist
Conference of our district, held at Big Rapids, my name was presented to
the assembled ministers as that of a candidate for a license to preach.
There was unusual interest in the result, and my father was among
those who came to the Conference to see the vote taken. During these
Conferences a minister voted affirmatively on a question by holding up
his hand, and negatively by failing to do so. When the question of my
license came up the majority of the ministers voted by raising both
hands, and in the pleasant excitement which followed my father slipped
away. Those who saw him told me he looked pleased; but he sent me no
message showing a change of viewpoint, and the gulf between the family
and its black sheep remained unbridged. Though the warmth of Mary's
love for me had become a memory, the warmth of her hearthstone was still
offered me. I accepted it, perforce, and we lived together like shadows
of what we had been. Two friends alone of all I had made stood by me
without qualification--Miss Foot and Clara Osborn, the latter my "chum"
at Big Rapids and a dweller in my heart to this day.

In the mean time my preaching had not interfered with my studies. I
was working day and night, but life was very difficult; for among my
schoolmates, too, there were doubts and much head-shaking over this
choice of a career. I needed the sound of friendly voices, for I
was very lonely; and suddenly, when the pressure from all sides was
strongest and I was going down physically under it, a voice was raised
that I had never dared to dream would speak for me. Mary A. Livermore
came to Big Rapids, and as she was then at the height of her career