I was perfectly delighted when I was entirely free. I asked
for everything I wanted, even a pin. After that, I could show my doll
clothes, and it was not necessary for me to be sly or tell stories any more.
It was about this time I was converted. There was a protracted meeting
at a place called Hickman's Mill, Jackson County, Missouri. The
minister was gray haired and belonged to the Christian or Disciples
church, the one my father belonged to. I was at this time ten years
old and went with my father to church on Lord's Day morning. At
the close of the sermon, and during the invitation, my father stepped
to the pulpit and spoke to the minister and he looked over in my
direction. At this I began to weep bitterly, seemed to be taken up, and sat
down on the front bench. I could not have told any one what I wept for,
except it was a longing to be better. I had often thought before this
that I was in danger of going to the "Bad place," especially I would be
afraid to think of the time that I should see Jesus come. I wanted to hide
from Him. My father had a cousin living at Hickman's Mill, Ben Robertson.
His wife, cousin Jennie, came up to me at the close of the service,
and said: "Carry, I believe you know what you are doing." But I did not.
Oh, how I wanted some one to explain to me. The next day I was taken to
a running stream about two miles away, and, although it was quite cold
and some ice in the water, I felt no fear.
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