"_Thro' the harsh noises of our day, A low sweet prelude finds its way, Thro' cloud of Doubt and creeds of Fear A Light is breaking calm and clear._" My caller was a queer little old woman. Her figure, however, was erect, her eyes bright and her voice low, soft and firm. She was becomingly dressed, in what might appear to be a Quaker garb, and a look of rare intelligence radiated her countenance.…
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