e already three other little girls in the class, who all gazed
in amazement at the new pupil. Rosie Carrick was there, Rosie of the
pink cheeks and the long curls who was Elizabeth's dearest chum. Rosie
giggled at the sight of Trip, and Elizabeth felt ashamed. Rosie was
the dearest girl in the world, but she would giggle at anything, even a
tragedy.

"Please, teacher," said Katie Price, "Lizzie Gordon's fetched a dog
into Sunday school." Katie Price always told things, and Rosie stopped
giggling and whispered, "Aw, tattle-tale!"

The teacher looked down at the little dog crouching between Elizabeth's
feet and Eppie's. But she did not look the least bit cross. Martha
Ellen never did. She giggled harder than Rosie, and exclaimed:

"Laws! Lizzie Gordon, where did you get him?" and then straightened
her big hat and glanced across the aisle towards Mr. Coulson's class.
Elizabeth looked up at her in overwhelming gratitude. She had always
adored Martha Ellen Robertson, but never so much as at this minute.

"Please, teacher," she faltered, "Martin's Brag was going to eat him
up. He's Charles Stuart MacAllister's dog, and I can give him to
Charles Stuart when he comes."

"Oh, he ain't going' to hurt anybody; are you, little doggie?"
whispered Martha Ellen good-naturedly. "He'll be all right so long as
your grandpa don't see him; eh, Eppie?"

Eppie smiled shyly, and then Noah Clegg's squeaky boots sounded up the
aisle and Sunday school had commenced.

Elizabeth drew a great sigh of relief, and glanced about her to see if
anyone appeared conscious of the guilty secret squeezed between her and
Eppie. But apparently no one was. All her own family, seated about
the room, seemed absorbed in their own affairs.

Each of the Gordons had a place in Sunday school, either as pupil or
teacher. Mr. Gordon taught the old folk who sat on the front row of
seats. Every Sabbath they were there, their hard hands folded, their
gray heads and toil-worn shoulders bent, listening while the man with
the sad, sweet face told them stories of One whose hands had been rent,
and whose shoulders had been bowed by the burden of their sin, and Who,
could they but know Him, would, under all the labor and money-getting
of their narrow lives, reveal to them life's true and noble meaning.

Miss Gordon taught the Young Ladies' Bible Class, her most critical
pupil being Sarah Emily, whose presence there the good lady could not
but regard as a