Produced by Annie McGuire


THE TRANSFIGURATION

OF MISS PHILURA

[Illustration: Mrs. Smart's Theme was Thought Forces and the Infinite

[_See page 18_]

THE TRANSFIGURATION
OF
MISS PHILURA

_By_
FLORENCE MORSE KINGSLEY

_THIRTEENTH EDITION_
FUNK & WAGNALLS COMPANY
NEW YORK AND LONDON

COPYRIGHT, 1901, BY
FLORENCE M. KINGSLEY
_Registered at Stationers' Hall, London, England_
[PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA]
Hour-Glass Stories Edition. Published March, 1902

       *       *       *       *       *

CHAPTER ONE

Miss Philura Rice tied her faded bonnet-strings under her faded chin
with hands that trembled a little; then she leaned forward and gazed
anxiously at the reflection which confronted her. A somewhat pinched and
wistful face it was, with large, light-lashed blue eyes, arched over
with a mere pretense at eyebrows. More than once in her twenties Miss
Philura had ventured to eke out this scanty provision of Nature with a
modicum of burned match stealthily applied in the privacy of her virgin
chamber. But the twenties, with their attendant dreams and follies, were
definitely past; just how long past no one knew exactly--Miss Philura
never informed the curious on this point.

As for the insufficient eyebrows, they symbolized, as it were, a meagre
and restricted life, vaguely acknowledged as the dispensation of an
obscurely hostile but consistent Providence; a Providence far too awful
and exalted--as well as hostile--to interest itself benignantly in so
small and neutral a personality as stared back at her from the large,
dim mirror of Cousin Maria Van Deuser's third-story back bedroom. Not
that Miss Philura ever admitted such dubious thoughts to the select
circle of her conscious reflections; more years ago than she cared to
count she had grappled with her discontent, had thrust it resolutely
out of sight, and on the top of it she had planted a big stone marked
Resignation. Nevertheless, at times the stone heaved and trembled
ominously.

       *       *       *       *       *

At sound of a brisk tap at her chamber door the lady turned with a
guilty start to find the fresh-colored, impertinent face of the French
maid obtruding itself into the room.

"Ze madame waits," announced this individual, and with a coldly
comprehensive eye swept the small figure from head to foot.

"Yes, yes, my dear, I am quite ready--I am coming at once!" faltered
Miss Philura, with a propitiatory smile, and more than ever painfully
aware that the skirt of her best black gown was irremediably short and
scant, that her waist was too flat, her shoulders too sloping, her
complexion faded, her forehead wrinkled, and her bonnet unbecoming.

As she stepped uncertainly down the dark, narrow stairway she rebuked
herself severely for these vain and worldly thoughts. "To be a church
member, in good and regular standing, and a useful member of society,"
she assured herself strenuously, "should be and _is_ sufficient for me."

Ten minutes later, Miss Philura, looking smaller and more insignificant
than usual, was seated in the carriage opposite Mrs. J. Mortimer Van
Deuser--a large, heavily upholstered lady of majestic deportment, paying
diligent heed to the words of wisdom which fell from the lips of her
hostess and kinswoman.

"During your short stay in Boston," that lady was remarking
impressively, "you will, of course, wish to avail yourself of those
means of culture and advancement so sadly lacking in your own
environment. This, my dear Philura, is pre-eminently the era of
progressive thought. We can have at best, I fear, but a faint
conception of the degree to which mankind will be able, in the years of
the coming century, to shake off the gross and material limitations of
sense."

Mrs. Van Deuser paused to settle her sables preliminary to recognizing
with an expansive smile an acquaintance who flashed by them in a
victoria; after which she adjusted the diamonds in her large, pink ears,
and proceeded with unctuous tranquillity. "On this occasion, my dear
Philura, you will have the pleasure of listening to an address by Mrs.
B. Isabelle Smart, one of our most advanced thinkers along this line.
You will, I trust, be able to derive from her words aliment which will
influence the entire trend of your individual experience."

"Where--in what place will the lady speak--I mean, will it be in the
church?" ventured Miss Philura in a depressed whisper. She sighed
apprehensively as she glanced down at the tips of her shabby gloves.

"The lecture will take place in the drawing-room of the Woman's
Ontological Club," responded Mrs. Van Deuser, adding with austere
sweetness of tone: "The club deals exclusively with those conceptions or
principles which lie at the base of all phenomena; including being,
reality, substance, time, space, motion, change, identity, difference,
and cause--in a word, my dear Philura, with ultimate metaphysical
philosophy." A majestic and conclusive sweep of a perfectly gloved hand
suggested infinity and reduced Miss Philura into shrinking silence.

       *       *       *       *       *

When Mrs. B. Isabelle Smart began to speak she became almost directly
aware of a small, wistful face, with faded blue eyes and a shabby,
unbecoming bonnet, which, surrounded as it was on all sides by tossing
plumes, rich velvets and sparkling gems, with their accompaniments of
full-fleshed, patrician countenances, took to itself a look of positive
distinction. Mrs. Smart's theme, as announced by the President of the
Ontological Club, was Thought Forces and the Infinite, a somewhat
formidable-sounding subject, but one which the pale, slight, plainly
dressed but singularly bright-eyed lady, put forward as the speaker of
the afternoon, showed no hesitancy in attacking.

Before three minutes had passed Miss Philura Rice had forgotten that
such things as shabby gloves, ill-fitting gowns, unbecoming bonnets and
superfluous birthdays existed. In ten minutes more she was leaning
forward in breathless attention, the faded eyes aglow, the unbecoming
bonnet pushed back from a face more wistful than ever, but flushed with
a joyful excitement.

       *       *       *       *       *

"This unseen Good hems us about on every side," the speaker was saying,
with a comprehensive sweep of her capable-looking hands. "It presses
upon us, more limitless, more inexhaustible, more free than the air that
we breathe! Out of it _every_ need, _every_ want, _every_ yearning of
humanity can be, must be, supplied. To you, who have hitherto led
starved lives, hungering, longing for the good things which you believe
a distant and indifferent God has denied you--to you I declare that in
this encircling, ever-present, invisible, exhaustless Beneficence is
already provided a lavish abundance of everything which you can possibly
want or think! Nay, desire itself is but God--Good--Love, knocking at
the door of your consciousness. It is impossible for you to desire
anything that is not already your own! It only remains for you to bring
the invisible into visibility--to take of the everlasting substance what
you will!

"And how must you do this? Ask, and _believe that you have_! You have
asked many times, perhaps, and have failed to receive. Why? You have
failed to _believe_. Ask, then, for what you will! Ask, and at once
return thanks for what you have asked! In the asking and _believing_ is
the thing itself made manifest. Declare that it is yours! Expect it!
Believe it! Hold to it without wavering--no matter how empty your hands
may seem! _It is yours_, and God's infinite creation shall lapse into
nothingness; His stars shall fall from high Heaven like withered leaves
sooner than that you shall fail to obtain all that you have asked!"

When, at the close of the lecture, Mrs. B. Isabelle Smart became the
center of a polite yet insistent crush of satins, velvets and
broadcloths, permeated by an aroma of violets and a gentle hum of
delicate flattery, she was aware of a timid hand upon her arm, and
turned to look into the small, eager face under the unfashionable
bonnet.

"You--you meant religious gifts, did you not?" faltered the faint,
discouraged voice; "faith, hope and--and--the--the being resigned to
God's will, and--and endeavoring to bear the cross with patience."

       *       *       *       *       *

"I meant _everything_ that _you_ want," answered the bright-eyed one
with deliberate emphasis, the bright eyes softening as they took in more
completely the pinched outlines and the eager child's look shining from
out the worn and faded woman's face.

"But--but there is so much! I--I never had anything that I really
wanted--things, you know, that one could hardly mention in one's
prayers."

"Have them now. Have them all. God is all. All is God. You are God's.
God is yours!"

Then the billowing surges of silk and velvet swept the small, inquiring
face into the background with the accustomed ease and relentlessness of
billowing surges.

Having partaken copiously of certain "material beliefs" consisting of
salads and sandwiches, accompanied by divers cups of strong coffee, Mrs.
J. Mortimer Van Deuser had become pleasantly flushed and expansive. "A
most unique, comprehensive and uplifting view of our spiritual
environment," she remarked to Miss Philura when the two ladies found
themselves on their homeward way. Her best society smile still lingered
blandly about the curves and creases of her stolid, high-colored visage;
the dying violets on her massive satin bosom gave forth their sweetest
parting breath.

The little lady on the front seat of the carriage sat very erect; red
spots glowed upon her faded cheeks. "I think," she said tremulously,
"that it was just--wonderful! I--I am so very happy to have heard it.
Thank you a thousand times, dear Cousin Maria, for taking me."

Mrs. Van Deuser raised her gold-rimmed glasses and settled them under
arching brows, while the society smile faded quite away. "Of course,"
she said coldly, "one should make due and proper allowance for facts--as
they exist. And also--er--consider above all what interpretation is best
suited to one's individual station in life. Truth, my dear Philura,
adapts itself freely to the needs of the poor and lowly as well as to
the demands of those upon whom devolve the higher responsibilities of
wealth and position; our dear Master Himself spoke of the poor as always
with us, you will remember. A lowly but pious life, passed in humble
recognition of God's chastening providence, is doubtless good and proper
for many worthy persons."

       *       *       *       *       *

Miss Philura's blue eyes flashed rebelliously for perhaps the first time
in uncounted years. She made no answer. As for the long and presumably
instructive homily on the duties and prerogatives of the lowly, lasting
quite up to the moment when the carriage stopped before the door of Mrs.
Van Deuser's residence, it fell upon ears which heard not. Indeed, her
next remark was so entirely irrelevant that her august kinswoman stared
in displeased amazement. "I am going to purchase some--some necessaries
to-morrow, Cousin Maria; I should like Fifine to go with me."

Miss Philura acknowledged to herself, with a truthfulness which she felt
to be almost brazen, that her uppermost yearnings were of a wholly
mundane character.

During a busy and joyous evening she endeavored to formulate these
thronging desires; by bedtime she had even ventured--with the aid of a
stubbed lead-pencil--to indite the most immediate and urgent of these
wants as they knocked at the door of her consciousness. The list, hidden
guiltily away in the depths of her shabby purse, read something as
follows:

"I wish to be beautiful and admired. I want two new dresses; a hat with
plumes, and a silk petticoat that rustles. I want some new kid gloves
and a feather boa (a long one made of ostrich feathers). I wish----" The
small, blunt pencil had been lifted in air for the space of three
minutes before it again descended; then, with cheeks that burned, Miss
Philura had written the fateful words: "I wish to have a lover and to
be married."

"There, I have done it!" she said to herself, her little fingers
trembling with agitation. "He must already exist in the encircling Good.
He is mine. I am engaged to be married at this very moment!"

To lay this singular memorandum before her Maker appeared to Miss
Philura little short of sacrilegious; but the thought of the mysterious
Abundance of which the seeress had spoken, urging itself, as it were,
upon her acceptance, encouraged her. She arose from her evening orisons
with a glowing face. "I have asked," she said aloud, "and I _believe_ I
shall have."

       *       *       *       *       *

Mademoiselle Fifine passed a very enjoyable morning with Miss Philura.
To choose, to purchase, and above all to transform the ugly into the
beautiful, filled the French woman's breast with enthusiasm. Her glance,
as it rested upon her companion's face and figure, was no longer coldly
critical, but cordially appreciative. "Ze madame," she declared, showing
her white teeth in a pleasant smile, "has very many advantage. _Voilà_,
ze hair--_c'est admirable_, as any one may perceive! Pardon, while for
one little minute I arrange! Ah--_mon dieu!_ Regard ze difference!"

The two were at this moment in a certain millinery shop conducted by a
discreet and agreeable compatriot of Fifine's. This individual now
produced a modest hat of black, garnished with plumes, which, set
lightly on the loosened bands of golden-brown hair, completed the effect
"_délicieusement!_" declared the French women in chorus.

With a beating heart Miss Philura stared into the mirror at her changed
reflection. "It is quite--quite true!" she said aloud. "It is all true."

Fifine and the milliner exchanged delighted shrugs and grimaces. In
truth, the small, erect figure, in its perfectly fitting gown, bore
no resemblance to the plain, elderly Miss Philura of yesterday.
As for the face beneath the nodding plumes, it was actually
radiant--transfigured--with joy and hope.

Mrs. J. Mortimer Van Deuser regarded the apparition which greeted her at
luncheon with open disapproval. This new Miss Philura, with the prettily
flushed cheeks, the bright eyes, the fluff of waving hair, and--yes,
actually a knot of fragrant violets at her breast, had given her an
unpleasant shock of surprise. "I am sure I hope you can _afford_ all
this," was her comment, with a deliberate adjustment of eyebrows and
glasses calculated to add mordant point and emphasis to her words.

"Oh, yes," replied Miss Philura tranquilly, but with heightened color;
"I can afford whatever I like now."

Mrs. Van Deuser stared hard at her guest. She found herself actually
hesitating before Philura Rice. Then she drew her massive figure to its
full height, and again bent the compelling light of her gold-rimmed
glasses full upon the small person of her kinswoman. "What--er--I do not
understand," she began lamely. "_Where_ did you obtain the money for all
this!"

Miss Philura raised her eyebrows ever so little--somehow they seemed to
suit the clear blue eyes admirably today.

"The money?" she repeated, in a tone of surprise. "Why, out of the
bank, of course."

Upon the fact that she had drawn out and expended in a single morning
nearly the whole of the modest sum commonly made to supply her meager
living for six months Miss Philura bestowed but a single thought. "In
the all-encircling Good," she said to herself serenely, "there is plenty
of money for me; why, then, should I not spend this?"

CHAPTER TWO

The village of Innisfield was treated to a singular surprise on the
Sunday morning following, when Miss Philura Rice, newly returned from
her annual visit to Boston, walked down the aisle to her accustomed
place in the singers' seat. Whispered comment and surmise flew from pew
to pew, sandwiched irreverently between hymn, prayer and sermon.
Indeed, the last-mentioned portion of the service, being of unusual
length and dullness, was utilized by the female members of the
congregation in making a minute inventory of the amazing changes which
had taken place in the familiar figure of their townswoman.

"Philury's had money left her, I shouldn't wonder;" "Her Cousin Van
Deuser's been fixin' her up;" "She's a-goin' to be married!" were some
of the opinions, wholly at variance with the text of the discourse,
which found their way from mouth to mouth.

Miss Electa Pratt attached herself with decision to her friend, Miss
Rice, directly the service was at an end. "I'm just _dying_ to hear all
about it!" she exclaimed, with a fond pressure of the arm linked within
her own--this after the two ladies had extricated themselves from the
circle of curious and critical faces at the church door.

Miss Philura surveyed the speaker with meditative eyes; it seemed to her
that Miss Pratt was curiously altered since she had seen her last.

"_Have_ you had a fortune left you?" went on her inquisitor, blinking
enviously at the nodding plumes which shaded Miss Philura's blue eyes.
"Everybody _says_ you have; and that you are going to get married soon.
I'm sure you'll tell _me_ everything!"

Miss Philura hesitated for a moment. "I haven't exactly had money left
me," she began; then her eyes brightened. "I have all that I need," she
said, and straightened her small figure confidently.

"And _are_ you going to be married, dear?"

"Yes," said Miss Philura distinctly.

"Well, I _never_--Philura Rice!" almost screamed her companion. "Do tell
me _when_; and _who_ is it?"

"I can not tell you that--now," said Miss Philura simply. "He is in----"
She was about to add "the encircling Good," but she reflected that Miss
Pratt might fail to comprehend her. "I will introduce you to
him--later," she concluded with dignity.

To follow the fortunes of Miss Philura during the ensuing weeks were a
pleasant though monotonous task; the encircling Good proved itself
wholly adequate to the demands made upon it. Though there was little
money in the worn purse, there were numerous and pressing invitations
to tea, to dinner, and to spend the day, from hosts of friends who had
suddenly become warm, affectionate, and cordially appreciative; and not
even the new Methodist minister's wife could boast of such lavish
donations, in the shape of new-laid eggs, frosted cakes, delicate
biscuit, toothsome crullers and choice fruits as found their way to Miss
Philura's door.

       *       *       *       *       *

The recipient of these manifold favors walked, as it were, upon air.
"For unto every one that hath shall be given," she read in the privacy
of her own shabby little parlor, "and he shall have abundance."

"Everything that I want is mine!" cried the little lady, bedewing the
pages of Holy Writ with happy tears. The thought of the lover and
husband who, it is true, yet lingered in the invisible, brought a
becoming blush to her cheek. "I shall see him soon," she reflected
tranquilly. "He is mine--mine!"

At that very moment Miss Electa Pratt was seated in the awe-inspiring
reception-room of Mrs. J. Mortimer Van Deuser's residence in Beacon
Street. The two ladies were engaged in earnest conversation.

       *       *       *       *       *

"What you tell me with regard to Philura fills me with surprise and
alarm," Mrs. Van Deuser was remarking with something more than her
accustomed majesty of tone and mien. "Philura Rice certainly did _not_
become engaged to be married during her stay in Boston. Neither has she
been the recipient of funds from myself, nor, to the best of my
knowledge, from any other member of the family. Personally, I have
always been averse to the encouragement of extravagance and vanity in
those destined by a wise Providence to pass their lives in a humble
station. I fear exceedingly that Philura's visits to Boston have failed
to benefit her as I wished and intended."

"But she _said_ that she had money, and that she was going to get
married," persisted Miss Pratt. "You don't suppose"--lowering her
strident tones to a whisper--"that the poor thing is going crazy?"

       *       *       *       *       *

Mrs. Van Deuser had concentrated her intellectual and penetrating orbs
upon a certain triangular knob that garnished the handle of her
visitor's umbrella; she vouchsafed no reply. When she did speak, after
the lapse of some moments, it was to dismiss that worthy person with a
practiced ease and adroitness which permitted of nothing further, either
in the way of information or conjecture.

"Philura is, after all, a distant relative of my own," soliloquized Mrs.
Van Deuser, "and _as such_ is entitled to consideration."

Her subsequent cogitations presently took shape to themselves and
became a letter, dispatched in the evening mail and bearing the address
of the Rev. Silas Pettibone, Innisfield. Mrs. Van Deuser recalled in
this missive Miss Philura's "unfortunate visit" to the Ontological Club,
and the patent indications of its equally unfortunate consequences. "I
should be inclined to take myself severely to task in the matter," wrote
the excellent and conscientious lady, "if I had not improved the
opportunity to explain at length, in the hearing of my misguided
relative, the nature and scope of God's controlling providence, as
signally displayed in His dealings with the humbler classes of society.
As an under-shepherd of the lowly flock to which Miss Rice belongs, my
dear Mr. Pettibone, I lay her spiritual state before you, and beg that
you will at once endeavor to set right her erroneous views of the
overruling guidance of the Supreme Being. I shall myself intercede for
Philura before the Throne of Grace."

       *       *       *       *       *

The Rev. Silas Pettibone read this remarkable communication with
interest; indeed, after returning it to its envelope and bestowing it in
his most inaccessible coat-pocket, the under-shepherd of the lowly flock
of Innisfield gave himself the task of resurrecting and reperusing the
succinct yet weighty words of Mrs. Van Deuser.

If the Rev. Silas had been blessed with a wife, to whose nimbler wits he
might have submitted the case, it is probable that he would not have sat
for so long a time in his great chair brooding over the contents of the
violet-tinted envelope from Boston. But unfortunately the good minister
had been forced to lay his helpmate beneath the rough sods of the
village churchyard some three years previous. Since this sad event, it
is scarcely necessary to state, he had found it essential to his peace
of mind to employ great discretion in his dealings with the female
members of his flock. He viewed the matter in hand with vague
misgivings. Strangely enough, he had not heard of Miss Philura's good
fortune, and to his masculine and impartial vision there had appeared no
especial change in the aspect or conduct of the the little woman.

"Let me think," he mused, passing his white hand through the thick, dark
locks, just touched with gray, which shaded his perplexed forehead. He
was a personable man, was the Rev. Silas Pettibone. "Let me think: Miss
Philura has been very regular in her attendance at church and
prayer-meeting of late. No, I have observed nothing wrong--nothing
blameworthy in her walk and conversation. But I can not approve of
these--ah--clubs." He again cast his eye upon the letter. "Ontology,
now, is certainly not a fit subject for the consideration of the female
mind."

       *       *       *       *       *

Having delivered himself of this sapient opinion, the reverend gentleman
made ready for a round of parochial visits. Foremost on his list
appeared the name of Miss Philura Rice. As he stood upon the door-step,
shaded on either side by fragrant lilac plumes, he resolved to be
particularly brief, though impressive, in his pastoral ministrations.
If this especial member of his flock had wandered from the straight and
narrow way into forbidden by-paths, it was his manifest duty to restore
her in the spirit of meekness; but he would waste no unnecessary time or
words in the process.

The sunshine, pleasantly interrupted by snowy muslin curtains, streamed
in through the open windows of Miss Philura's modest parlor, kindling
into scarlet flame the blossoms of the thrifty geranium which stood
upon the sill, and flickered gently on the brown head of the little
mistress of the house, seated with her sewing in a favorite
rocking-chair. Miss Philura was unaffectedly glad to see her pastor. She
told him at once that last Sunday's sermon was inspiring; that she felt
sure that after hearing it the unconverted could hardly fail to be
convinced of the error of their ways.

The Rev. Silas Pettibone seated himself opposite Miss Philura and
regarded her attentively. The second-best new dress was undeniably
becoming; the blue eyes under the childish brows beamed upon him
cordially. "I am pleased to learn--ah--that you can approve the
discourse of Sabbath morning," he began in somewhat labored fashion. "I
have had occasion to--that is--er, my attention has been called of late
to the fact that certain members of the church have--well, to put it
briefly, some have fallen grievously away from the faith."

Miss Philura's sympathy and concern were at once apparent. "I do not
see," she said simply, "how one can fall away from the faith. It is so
beautiful to believe!"

       *       *       *       *       *

The small, upturned face shone with so sweet and serene a light that the
under-shepherd of the Innisfield flock leaned forward and fixed his
earnest brown eyes on the clear blue eyes of the lady. In treatises
relating to the affections this stage of the proceedings is generally
conceded to mark a crisis. It marked a crisis on this occasion; during
that moment the Rev. Silas Pettibone forgot at once and for all time the
violet-tinted envelope in his coat-tail pocket. It was discovered six
month's later and consigned to oblivion by--but let us not anticipate.

"God is so kind, _so generous_!" pursued Miss Philura softly. "If we
once know Him as our Father we can never again be afraid, or lonely, or
poor, or lacking for any good thing. How is it possible to fall away? I
do not understand. Is it not because they do not know Him?"

It is altogether likely that the pastor of the Innisfield Presbyterian
Church found conditions in the spiritual state of Miss Philura which
necessitated earnest and prolonged admonition; at all events, the sun
was sinking behind the western horizon when the reverend gentleman
slowly and thoughtfully made his way toward the parsonage. Curiously
enough, this highly respectable domicile had taken on during his absence
an aspect of gloom and loneliness unpleasantly apparent. "A scarlet
geranium in the window might improve it," thought the vaguely
dissatisfied proprietor, as he put on his dressing-gown and thrust his
feet into his newest pair of slippers. (Presented by Miss Electa Pratt
"to my pastor, with grateful affection.")

"I believe I failed to draw Miss Philura's attention to the obvious
relation between faith and works," cogitated the reverend Silas, as he
sat before his lonely hearth, placidly scorching the soles of his new
slippers before the cheerful blaze. "It will be altogether advisable, I
think, to set her right on that point without delay. I will--ah--just
look in again for a moment to-morrow afternoon."

       *       *       *       *       *

  "God's purposes will ripen fast,
    Unfolding every hour.
  The bud may have a bitter taste,
    But sweet will be the flower!"

sang the choir of the Innisfield Presbyterian Church one Sunday morning
a month later. And Miss Philura Rice--as was afterward remarked--sang
the words with such enthusiasm and earnestness that her high soprano
soared quite above all the other voices in the choir, and this despite
the fact that Miss Electa Pratt was putting forth her nasal contralto
with more than wonted insistence.

The last-mentioned lady found the sermon--on the text, "Little children,
love one another, for love is of God"--so extremely convincing, and her
own subsequent spiritual state in such an agitated condition, that she
took occasion to seek a private conversation with her pastor in his
study on that same Sunday afternoon.

"I don't know _when_ I've been so wrought up!" declared Miss Pratt, with
a preliminary display of immaculate handkerchief. "I cried _and cried_
after I got home from church this morning. Ma she sez to me, sez she,
'What ails you Lecty?' And I sez to ma, sez I, 'Ma, it was that
_blessed_ sermon. I don't know _when_ I ever heard anything like it!
That dear pastor of ours is just ripening for a better world!'" Miss
Electa paused a moment to shed copious tears over this statement. "It
does seem to me, _dear_ Mr. Pettibone," she resumed, with a tender
glance and a comprehensive sniff, "that you ain't looking as well as
usual. I said so to Philura Rice as we was coming out of church, and I
really hate to tell you how she answered me; only I feel as though it
was my duty. 'Mr. Pettibone is perfectly well!' she says, and tossed
those feathers of hers higher'n ever. Philura's awful worldly, I _do
grieve_ to say--_if not worse_. I've been a-thinking for some time that
it was my Christian duty (however painful) to tell you what Mis' Van
Deuser, of Boston, said about----"

The Rev. Silas Pettibone frowned with awful dignity. He brought down his
closed fist upon his open Bible with forensic force and suddenness.
"Miss Philura Rice," he said emphatically, "is one of the most
spiritual--the most lovely and consistent--Christian characters it has
ever been my privilege to know. Her faith and unworldliness are
absolutely beyond the comprehension of--of--many of my flock. I must
further tell you that I hope to have the great happiness of leading
Miss Rice to the matrimonial altar in the near future."

Miss Electa Pratt sank back in her chair petrified with astonishment.
"Well, I _must say_!" she gasped. "And she was engaged to you _all this
time_ and I never knew it!"

The Rev. Pettibone bent his eyes coldly upon his agitated parishioner.
"I am at a loss to comprehend your very strange comment, Miss Pratt," he
said; "the engagement has been of such very short duration that I can
not regard it as surprising that you should not have heard of it.
It--ah--took place only yesterday."

Miss Electa straightened her angular shoulders with a jerk. "Yesterday!"
she almost screamed. "Well! I can tell _you_ that Philura Rice told _me_
that she was engaged to be married more than three months ago!"

"You are certainly mistaken, madam," began the minister in a somewhat
perturbed tone, which did not escape the notice of the now flushed and
triumphant spinster.

"More than three months ago!" she repeated with incisive emphasis.
"_Now_ maybe you'll listen to me while I tell you what I know about
Philura Rice!"

But the lady had reckoned without her host. The Rev. Silas arose to his
feet with decision. "I certainly will _not_ listen to anything
derogatory to Miss Rice," he said sternly. "She is my promised wife,
you will remember." With that the prudent minister beat a hasty retreat,
to entrench himself without apology or delay in the inner fastnesses of
the parsonage.

       *       *       *       *       *

Miss Electa rolled her greenish orbs about the chamber of learning with
a thoughtful smile. "If Philura Rice ain't crazy," she said aloud; "an'
I guess she ain't far from it. She's told a wicked lie! In either case,
it's my Christian duty to see this thing put a stop to!"

That evening after service Miss Philura, her modest cheeks dyed with
painful blushes, confessed to her promised husband that she had indeed
announced her intentions of matrimony some three months previous. "I
wanted somebody to--to love me," she faltered; "somebody in particular,
you know; and--and I asked God to give me--a--a husband. After I had
asked, of course I _believed_ that _I had_. He--he was already in the
encircling Good, you know, or I should not have wanted him! When Electa
asked me point blank, what could I say without--without denying--_God_?"

The brave voice faltered more than once during this recital; and finally
broke down altogether when the Rev. Silas Pettibone, his brown eyes
shining, exclaimed in joyful yet solemn tones, "and God sent me!"

The encircling Good was perfectly manifest at that moment in the shape
of two strong arms. Miss Philura rested in them and was glad.

THE

HOUR-GLASS

STORIES

       *       *       *       *       *

THE COURTSHIP OF SWEET ANNE PAGE

By ELLEN V. TALBOT. A brisk little love story incidental to "The Merry
Wives of Windsor," full of fun and frolic, and telling of the Courtship
of Sweet Anne Page by three rivals lovers chosen by her father, her
mother, and herself.

THE SANDALS

By REV. ZELOTES GRENELL. A beautiful little idyl of sacred story dealing
with the sandals of Christ.

THE TRANSFIGURATION OF MISS PHILURA

By FLORENCE MORSE KINGSLEY. This clever story is based on the theory
that every physical need and every desire of the human heart can be
claimed and received from the "Encircling Good" by the true believer.

THE HERR DOCTOR

By ROBERT MACDONALD. A novelette of artistic literary merit, narrating
the varied experiences of an American girl in her effort toward
capturing a titled husband.

ESARHADDON

By COUNT LEO TOLSTOY. Three allegorical stories illustrating Tolstoy's
theories of non-resistance, and the essential unity of all forms of
life.

THE CZAR'S GIFT

By WILLIAM ORDWAY PARTRIDGE. How freedom was obtained for an exiled
brother.

THE EMANCIPATION OF MISS SUSANA

An entrancing love story that ends in a most romantic marriage.

THE OLD DARNMAN

By CHARLES L. GOODELL, D.D. A character known to many a New England boy
and girl, in which the "lost bride" is the occasion for a lifelong
search from door to door.

BALM IN GILEAD

By FLORENCE MORSE KINGSLEY. A very touching story of a mother's grief
over the loss of her child of tender years, and her search for comfort,
which she finds at last in her husband's loyal Christian faith.

MISERERE

By MABEL WAGNALLS. The romantic story of a sweet voice that thrilled
great audiences in operatic Paris, Berlin, etc.

PARSIFAL

By H. R. HAWEIS. An intimate study of the great operatic masterpiece.

THE TROUBLE WOMAN

By CLARA MORRIS. A pathetic little story full of heart interest.

THE RETURN OF CAROLINE

By FLORENCE MORSE KINGSLEY. Companion story to the "Transfiguration of
Miss Philura," by the same author.

       *       *       *       *       *

_Small l2mo, Dainty Cloth Binding, Illustrated._

_40 cents each_

FUNK & WAGNALLS COMPANY, Pubs.

NEW YORK AND LONDON

End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Transfiguration of Miss Philura, by 
Florence Morse Kingsley
{'title': 'The Transfiguration of Miss Philura by Florence Morse Kingsley', 'source': 'Project Gutenberg', 'lang': 'en'}