an that comes to
see you to bring Mr. Coulson out and let him be chairman!"

Miss Hillary blushed harder than ever and laughed; so did Annie Gordon
and Martha Ellen Robertson. Mr. MacAllister laughed, too, and slapped
his knee, and said yon was a fine idea, and all the younger folk
exclaimed in delight. And so it was promptly settled there and then,
and Elizabeth understood when Annie passed her the Johnny-cake again.

But she did not understand why she was sternly ordered to bed by her
aunt just the moment the company was gone; and wondered drearily why it
was that this one day of triumph should end in tears.

The next morning she found matters no better, for the day had scarcely
begun before Aunt Margaret singled her out to be talked to solemnly on
the sin of being bold and forward, and speaking up when older people
were present. Elizabeth partially brought the rebuke upon herself.
Remembering only the joys of the night before, she arose early and in
the exuberance of her spirits pulled Mary out of bed and tickled her
until she was seized with a fit of coughing; and Mary's cough was a
serious affair. Next she visited the boys' room and started a
pillow-fight with John.

The noise brought Miss Gordon from her room. It was a chill winter
morning, and the lady's temper was not any too sweet. Elizabeth fled
to her room and began dressing madly. Her aunt slowly entered, seated
herself on the little bench by the window, and, while her niece dressed
and combed her hair, she gave her a long and aggrieved dissertation
upon genteel conduct for little girls.

"And now," she concluded, as Elizabeth gave way to tears and showed
signs of collapsing upon the bed, "I want you to learn two extra verses
of your psalm before you come down to breakfast. And I do hope and
trust it may lead you to be a better girl." She arose with a sigh,
which said her hopes were but feeble and, bidding Mary follow her,
descended the stairs.

When they were gone, Elizabeth got out her Bible, and sat by the frosty
window, looking out drearily at the red morning sunshine. She wished
with all her might that she had never been born. Likely she would die
of grief soon anyway, she reflected, and never act in the dialogue
after all. Yes, she would get sick and go to bed and be in a raging
fever. And, just like the little girl in her latest Sunday-school
book, who had been so badly used, she would cry out in her ravings that
Aunt Margaret was