Self-sacrifice--to use a worn
metaphor--self-sacrifice was the breath of the nostrils of the womanly
woman. It was for her power of self-sacrifice that men loved her and
made an Ideal of her. Whatever else woman gave up, she must always
retain her power of self-sacrifice if she expected the heart of her
husband to rejoice in her. The home was founded on sacrifice, and woman
was the pillar and the ornament of the home. There was her sphere, her
purpose, her mission. All things outside of that sphere belonged to man,
except the privilege of ministering to the sick and the afflicted in
other households.
He leaned forward in the old pulpit, his shapely, well-kept hand hanging
over the edge in one of his most characteristic gestures; and the autumn
sunlight, falling through the plain glass windows, shone on his temples.
Immediately below him, in a front pew, sat his mother, a dried little
old woman, with beady black eyes and a pointed chin, which jutted out
from between the stiff taffeta strings of her poke bonnet. She gazed
upward, clasping her Prayer-book in her black woollen gloves, which were
darned in the fingers; and though she appeared to listen attentively to
the sermon, she was wondering all the time if the coloured servant at
home would remember to baste the roast pig she had left in the oven.
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