me, for I understood nothing of what was said or sung; but there was a
sadness, a suppression in the air, as of the valley of Jehosaphat. The
stillness too, that intense hush which often occurred between the
remarks and prayers of the brethren and sisters, filled me with a
nameless, shrinking fear. Had I been old enough, conversion would have
been easy as the only means of escape from those terrible silences. My
usual relief was in clinging to my mother's hand which gave me a sense
of protection from I knew not what; or in looking at the vessel in the
mirror and sailing away to other worlds. Under that sail I visited all
the neighboring inland towns whose names and nothing more I
knew--Milford, Medway, Mendon and Hopkinton, the utmost bound of my
little world--beyond Hopkinton, nothing.

At length there came a day when Amos Partridge could work no longer; the
pain in his knee became too excruciating to be endured. The surgeon was
summoned and a date determined for an amputation. The neighborhood was
informed and nothing else was talked or thought of during the preceding
days. The chances of Amos surviving the operation were discussed; for it
was before the days of anaesthetics and the science of surgery had not
then made the removal of a limb the least of its triumphs. Most of the
neighbors, especially the women, took a hopeless view of the result.
Preparations were made much resembling those for a funeral. My mother
told me she was going to the amputation, and as she never left me at
home when she went abroad, I knew I should go too. But this did not
oppress me, not nearly as much as the thought of a prayer meeting. A dim
sensation of something extraordinary about to happen filled me with
excitement. Yet, on the whole, it was an emotion of joy.

The momentous day of the amputation arrived. I could hardly restrain my
impatience. It was a calm, soft afternoon in early spring when my mother
and I set out for the house of Amos Partridge; not however, before my
mother had been to her chamber, and, on her knees, offered a silent
prayer. She appeared very serious and silent on the way. Could she be
ignorant of the pleasure I was anticipating? I danced along by her side;
hardly feeling the earth beneath my feet; I was already at the scene of
expected festivity. I noticed that my mother carried a fan. It was not a
hot day and I wondered much what the fan was for. We arrived at the
house where there was already a considerable as