"I never noticed before how shabby and scarred and dirty the pews are," said
the minister's wife, as she looked at them reflectively.
"I've been thinking all the afternoon of the story about the poor old woman
and the lily," and Nancy Wentworth's clear voice broke into the discussion.
"Do you remember some one gave her a stalk of Easter lilies and she set them
in a glass pitcher on the kitchen table? After looking at them for a few
minutes, she got up from her chair and washed the pitcher until the glass
shone. Sitting down again, she glanced at the little window. It would never
do; she had forgotten how dusty and blurred it was, and she took her cloth and
burnished the panes. Then she scoured the table, then the floor, then
blackened the stove before she sat down to her knitting. And of course the
lily had done it all, just by showing, in its whiteness, how grimy everything
else was."
The minister's wife, who had been in Edgewood only a few months, looked
admiringly at Nancy's bright face, wondering that five-and-thirty years of
life, including ten of school-teaching, had done so little to mar its
serenity.
"The lily story is as true as the gospel!" she exclaimed, "and I can see how
one thing has led you to another in making the church comfortable.
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