rees about the Capitol, and it was thought with
propriety that during this month church-going ladies would prefer to
attend Saint John's. Here, therefore, on a Sunday in mid-August, the
Reverend John Buchanan preached to a large and noteworthy assemblage.

The day was hot, but the chestnut trees and sycamores gave a grateful
shade, and large white clouds in a brilliant blue threw now and then a
transient screen between sun and earth. The broad and murmuring river
and the far stretch of woodland upon the Chesterfield side gave, too, a
sensation of space and coolness. Faint airs carried the smell of
midsummer flowers, and bees droned around the flat tombstones sunk in
honeysuckle. The congregation gathered slowly, the masculine portion of
it lingering, as was the custom, in the wide old churchyard until the
second tinkling of the bell should call them indoors. They had thus the
double advantage of talk and observation of the Progress of Women. These
traversed the path to the church door like a drift of blossoms in the
summer air, saluted on either hand by the lowest of bows, the most
gallant lifting of bell-shaped hats. Whatever might be said of the men's
dress, from the fair top-boot to the yards of lawn that swathed the
throat, that of the weaker sex, in the days of the Empire, was admirably
fitted for August weather. Above pale, thin stuffs, girdled beneath the
breast and falling straight and narrow to the instep, rose bare white
neck and arms, while each charming face looked forth from an umbrageous
bonnet of fine straw. Bonnet and large fan appeared the only ample
articles of attire; even the gloves were but mitts. By ones and twos, or
in larger knots, the wearers of this slender finery entered Saint John's
with sedateness, took their seats in the dim old pews, and waited in the
warm, fragrant, whisper-filled air for the ringing of the second bell
and the entrance of the men. After church, custom would still reign, and
all alike would linger, laugh, and talk beneath the trees, while the
coaches drew up slowly and the grooms brought the saddle-horses from the
rack, and those who meant to walk gathered courage for the dusty
venture.

Jacqueline Rand and Unity Dandridge, the one in her customary white, the
other in a blue that marvellously set off dark hair, dark eyes, and
brilliant bloom, entered Saint John's together and passed up the aisle
to a seat halfway between door and pulpit. By some miscalculation of
Unity's