Somewhere between the whirl of teenage dates and the responsibility of matrimony, we find a lone creature called the Missionary's Girl.
They come in two varieties engaged and hopefuls. They come in assorted sizes, weights, and colors, blue being the most common.
Missionaries' girls are found at home, missing parties, staying away from dances, paying their own way to the show, bulk buying stationary.
Missionaries love them, young girls look up to them, parents tolerate them, postmen hate them, and weekly letters support them.
A missionaries' girl is a composite. She has the appetite of a mouse, the enthusiasm of a wet noodle, the patience of Job, the persistence of a stainless steel salesman, and the imagination of Scherazade.
She likes letters from the mission field, invitations to his home, long distance telephone calls, items for his scrapbook, pictures of him, and other girls who are waiting. She isn't much for Saturday nights at home, new clothes with no one to wear them for, sad movies and music, movies with love scenes, knitting, wedding receptions, little sisters who date, calendars, "Dear Janes," and people who say, "Two years is a long time."
A missionaries' girl is an odd object: She can get lonesome, discouraged, and temporarily lose faith in the whole missionary system. No one else can write such cheerful letters in such a rotten mood. No one else can get such a thrill at the end of the day by the words, "Why yes, I believe there is a letter for you." Nobody else is so early to bed and so early to rise.
A missionaries' girl is virtue with no chance to be otherwise. Faith with twenty-four months to wait, prudence with 59 cents in her savings account, and beauty with no one to give a darn.
Yes, she is all this, but it will all be forgotten the day he receives his letter of release. And on his arrival home she will probably utter the speech she once considered trite, "It hasn't seemed like any time at all."