Having arisen from the tomb, a Woman presented herself at the gate of Heaven, and knocked with a trembling hand.

“Madam,” said Saint Peter, rising and approaching the wicket, “whence do you come?”

“From San Francisco,” replied the Woman, with embarrassment, as great beads of perspiration spangled her spiritual brow.

“Never mind, my good girl,” the Saint said, compassionately. “Eternity is a long time; you can live that down.”

“But that, if you please, is not all.” The Woman was growing more and more confused. “I poisoned my husband. I chopped up my babies. I—”

“Ah,” said the Saint, with sudden austerity, “your confession suggests a very grave possibility. Were you a member of the Women’s Press Association?”

The lady drew herself up and replied with warmth:

“I was not.”

The gates of pearl and jasper swung back upon their golden hinges, making the most ravishing music, and the Saint, stepping aside, bowed low, saying:

“Enter, then, into thine eternal rest.”

But the Woman hesitated.

“The poisoning—the chopping—the—the—” she stammered.

“Of no consequence, I assure you. We are not going to be hard on a lady who did not belong to the Women’s Press Association. Take a harp.”

“But I applied for membership—I was blackballed.”

“Take two harps.”