I, however, felt that if I let that failure stand against me I could never afterward speak in public; and within ten minutes, notwithstanding the protests of my friends, I was back in the hall and beginning my recitation a second time. The audience gave me its eager attention. Possibly it hoped to see me topple off the platform again, but nothing of the sort occurred. I went through the recitation with self-possession and received some friendly applause at the end. Strangely enough, those first sensations of ``stage fright'' have been experienced, in a lesser de- g ree, in connection with each of the thousands of public speeches I have made since that time. I h ave never again gone so far as to faint in the presence of an audience; but I have invariably walked out on the platform feeling the sinking sen- s ation at the pit of the stomach, the weakness of the knees, that I felt in the hour of my debut. Now, however, the nervousness passes after a moment or two.
From that night Miss Foot lost no opportunity of putting me into the foreground of our school affairs.
I took part in all our debates, recited yards of poe- t ry to any audience we could attract, and even shone mildly in our amateur theatricals. It was probably owing to all this activity that I attracted the in- t erest of the presiding elder of our district--Dr.
Peck, a man of progressive ideas. There was at that time a movement on foot to license women to preach in the Methodist Church, and Dr. Peck was ambitious to be the first presiding elder to have a woman ordained for the Methodist ministry. He had urged Miss Foot to be this pioneer, but her ambitions did not turn in that direction. Though she was a very devout Methodist, she had no wish to be the shepherd of a religious flock. She loved her school-work, and asked nothing better than to remain in it. Gently but persistently she directed the attention of Dr. Peck to me, and immediately things began to happen.
Without telling me to what it might lead, Miss Foot finally arranged a meeting at her home by in- v iting Dr. Peck and me to dinner. Being uncon- s cious of any significance in the occasion, I chatted light-heartedly about the large issues of life and probably settled most of them to my personal satis- f action. Dr. Peck drew me out and led me on, listened and smiled. When the evening was over and we rose to go, he turned to me with sudden seriousness:
``My quarterly meeting will be held at Ashton,'' h e remarked, casually. ``I would like you to preach the quarterly sermon.''
For a moment the earth seemed to slip away from my feet. I stared at him in utter stupefaction.
Then slowly I realized that, incredible as it seemed, the man was in earnest.
``Why,'' I stammered, ``_I_ can't preach a ser- m on!''
Dr. Peck smiled at me. ``Have you ever tried?'' h e asked.
I started to assure him vehemently that I never had. Then, as if Time had thrown a picture on a screen before me, I saw myself as a little girl preach- i ng alone in the forest, as I had so often preached to a congregation of listening trees. I qualified my answer.
``Never,'' I said, ``to human beings.''
Dr. Peck smiled again. ``Well,'' he told me, ``the door is open. Enter or not, as you wish.''
He left the house, but I remained to discuss his overwhelming proposition with Miss Foot. A sud- d en sobering thought had come to me.
``But,'' I exclaimed, ``I've never been converted.
How can I preach to any one?''
We both had the old-time idea of conversion, which now seems so mistaken. We thought one had to struggle with sin and with the Lord until at last the heart opened, doubts were dispersed, and the light poured in. Miss Foot could only advise me to put the matter before the Lord, to wrestle and to pray; and thereafter, for hours at a time, she worked and prayed with me, alternately urging, pleading, instructing, and sending up petitions in my behalf.
Our last session was a dramatic one, which took up the entire night. Long before it was over we were both worn out; but toward morning, either from exhaustion of body or exaltation of soul, I seemed to see the light, and it made me very happy. With all my heart I wanted to preach, and I believed that now at last I had my call. The following day we sent word to Dr. Peck that I would preach the ser- m on at Ashton as he had asked, but we urged him to say nothing of the matter for the present, and Miss Foot and I also kept the secret locked in our breasts.
I knew only too well what view my family and my friends would take of such a step and of me. To them it would mean nothing short of personal dis- g race and a blotted page in the Shaw record.
I had six weeks in which to prepare my sermon, and I gave it most of my waking hours as well as those in which I should have been asleep. I took for my text: ``And as Moses lifted up the serpent in the wilderness, even so must the Son of Man be lifted up; that whosoever believeth in Him should not perish, but have eternal life.''
It was not until three days before I preached the sermon that I found courage to confide my purpose to my sister Mary, and if I had confessed my inten- t ion to commit a capital crime she could not have been more disturbed. We two had always been very close, and the death of Eleanor, to whom we were both devoted, had drawn us even nearer to each other. Now Mary's tears and prayers wrung my heart and shook my resolution. But, after all, she was asking me to give up my whole future, to close my ears to my call, and I felt that I could not do it. My decision caused an estrangement between us which lasted for years. On the day preceding the delivery of my sermon I left for Ashton on the afternoon train; and in the same car, but as far away from me as she could get, Mary sat alone and wept throughout the journey. She was going to my mother, but she did not speak to me; and I, for my part, facing both alienation from her and the ordeal before me, found my one comfort in Lucy Foot's presence and understanding sympathy.
