Properly rebuked Mrs. Pilrig stole away to prepare the missionaries’ supper, while Thurley and Philena drew up a compact, signing and dating it to read as follows:
“Thurley Precore and Philena Pilrig of Birge’s Corners do swear they will go as missionaries to convert the heathen from eating flesh and all the other bad things they do. Thurley will sing the songs and mind the babies so the mothers can attend the meetings and Philena is to preach and pray and make white dresses for every one. If Lorraine McDowell wants to she can travel in America and raise funds for the cause but nobody shall ever be the same _dear_ friends as Thurley Precore and Philena Pilrig. Amen.
They put it between the pages of the illustrated Bible and then, descending to things of the earth earthy, fell upon a batch of newly-baked cookies with the ferocity of the unconverted savages.
In the midst of her cookie Philena paused to remark, “Thurley, do you think my being lame will make any difference—you’re so straight and strong—”
Thurley finished her cookie, while she thought up her defense. Spying tears in Philena’s eyes she went over to fling her arms about the crooked back and declare, “Philena Pilrig, you’ll be armed with your crutch—like a soldier with a gun. You’ll really be better to go as a missionary than folks that haven’t crutches,” clapping her hands in delight at the rainbow smile.
“But nobody ever thinks much of cripples—Oyster Jim fought in the Civil War, and, when he came back lame, nobody married him and he started in having a store—they say he wanted to be a lawyer.”
“Then he should have been a lawyer just the same. Wait, Philena, I guess God wants to say something—ssh!” Her eyes were like stars, and she warded off Philena’s outstretched arm as if afraid mortal touch might dim the celestial message. “Oh, lots of times,” she added a moment later, “God does tell me things—queer things. Sometimes they rhyme like poems in books and sometimes they’re cross—’cause some one has to scold little girls and Pa and Ma never said anything to me—so God had to scold me, and now He’s telling me something to comfort you, Philena. What do you think it is?”
“Oh, you scare me most—talking like a book—God never tells folks things, except what He wrote down in the Bible—whisper it, Thurley—”