ning in her black silk dress, with her jet earrings, and the
knot of white lace at her throat. Elizabeth gazed at her in profound
admiration, and then at Annie with some anxiety. Annie was looking
pale this morning. Elizabeth wished she had not given away all her
maple sugar to the little boys last night; a bite might have been such
a comfort to poor Annie, and she was looking sadly in need of comfort.

When the plates of oatmeal porridge and the big pile of
bread-and-butter had disappeared, Annie handed her father his Bible and
psalm-book and they all joined in family worship. The little ceremony
opened with the singing of a paraphrase:

"_O God of Bethel, by whose Hand
Thy people still are fed._"

The windows were open and the breath of the apple-blossoms came
floating in. The bees, droning over the honey-suckle in the garden
below, and the song sparrow on the cherry-bough above, both joined in
the hymn to the great Father who had made the beautiful world.

Then Mr. Gordon read a chapter; a wonderful chapter, Elizabeth felt.
She was in perfect accord with the beauty and peace of the Sabbath Day
and every word went to her heart:

"The wilderness and the solitary place shall be glad for them; and the
desert shall rejoice and blossom as the rose. It shall blossom
abundantly, and rejoice even with joy and singing. The glory of
Lebanon shall be given unto it, the excellency of Carmel and Sharon----"

Elizabeth had no idea of its meaning, but its beauty, with some vague
hint of its eternal promise of love and joy, made her child's heart
swell. She was dismayed to feel her eyes beginning to smart with the
rising tears. She did not guess why, but she could have cried out with
both joy and pain at the majestic triumph of the close:

"And the ransomed of the Lord shall return and come to Zion with songs
and everlasting joy upon their heads. They shall obtain joy and
gladness, and sorrow and sighing shall flee away."

She struggled with her tears. If John should see them! He would
wonder why she was crying, and she could never tell him. John would
not understand. That was the tragedy of Elizabeth's life. One could
never tell things, for nobody understood.

She was relieved when they knelt in prayer and she could hide her tears
in a corner of the old sofa. Prayers were very much longer on Sundays
than on other mornings, but, though the boys might fidget a little, the
most active member of t