cture, the sunbeams sifting through the lilacs on the
little fair heads, and dancing over Ellen's white apron and rosy face;
but Mrs. Grier, who had come to the door at the noise of the cheers, did
not stop to notice it.

"Oh, you naughty children!" she cried. "Don't you know it is wicked to
play on the Sabbath? Ellen's playing circus, do you say, Bobby? You
naughty, naughty girl! Don't you know circus people are all wicked, and
don't go to heaven when they die? I should think you'd be ashamed! Go
right up-stairs, Ellen, and go to bed; and you boys can each learn a
psalm, and you'll have no supper, either,--do you hear?"

The children began to cry, but Mrs. Grier was firm; and when, a little
later, Helen came down-stairs, ready for her ride, the house was
strangely quiet. Mrs. Grier, really troubled at her children's
sinfulness, confided their misdeeds to Helen, and was not soothed
by the smile that flashed across her face.

"They were such good children to study their catechism first," she
interceded, "and making a horse out of a grindstone shows an imagination
which might excuse the playing."

But Mrs. Grier was not comforted, and only felt the more convinced of the
lost condition of Mrs. Ward's soul. The conviction of other people's sin
is sometimes a very pleasing emotion, so she bade her guest good-by with
much cordiality and even pulled the skirt of her habit straight, and gave
the gray a lump of sugar.

Helen told John of the scene under the lilacs, as they trotted down the
lane to the highway, but his mood was too grave to see any humor in it.
Indeed, his frame of mind had changed after he left his wife for his
second sermon. The exhilaration and triumph had gone, and the reaction
had come. He brooded over his sin, and the harassed, distressed look of
the last few days settled down again on his face. But Helen had regained
her sweet serenity and content; she felt so certain that the darkness
since Thursday had been the shadow in which his sermon had been conceived
that her relief brought a joy which obscured any thought of regret that
he should hold such views.

John's head was bent, and his hands were clasped upon his saddle-bow,
while the reins fell loosely from between his listless fingers.

"You are so tired, John," Helen said regretfully.

He sighed, as though rousing himself from thought. "A little, dearest,"
and then his sorrowful eyes smiled. "You look so fresh and rested, Helen.
It was wise for