as serious any obstacles in
the way of following out my personal inclinations--these were experiences
too new to me, and my resolve was not a natural one, but forced and
impatient.

"You are very kind," I said; "but I can't go to-morrow."

The two little Keelers came running out of the Ark to meet me. I was
secretly relieved. Mr. Rollin had been watching me narrowly; his lips
curled, and his eyes flashed with a half angry, half scornful light. He
cast an unloving glance at the little Keelers.

"I can't, of course, question the justice of your decision," he said
shortly, and touched his hat and walked away without another word.

I considered this as one of the least among my many trials and
perplexities. Oftentimes I sighed for the light-hearted, "irresponsible"
days of yore, when "missions" were, as yet, to me unknown.

School was the greatest perplexity. Grandma Keeler's tenderness grew more
impressive each day.

"It seems to me you're a growin' bleak and holler-eyed, teacher," she
would say to me when I came home at night.

So I indulged more and more in a deeply sentimental self-pity, and felt a
growing satisfaction in the consciousness that I was enduring martyrdom.
It was more by reason of a stubborn and desperate pride, I think, than
from higher motives, that, in my letters home, I said nothing of the
discomforts and discouragements which attended my course. I chose to
dilate on the beautiful scenery of Wallencamp, and the quaint originality
of its inhabitants.

CHAPTER V.

GRANDMA KEELER GETS GRANDPA READY FOR SUNDAY SCHOOL.

Sunday morning nothing arose in Wallencamp save the sun.

At least, that celestial orb had long forgotten all the roseate flaming
of his youth, in an honest, straightforward march through the heavens,
ere the first signs of smoke came curling lazily up from the Wallencamp
chimneys.

I had retired at night, very weary, with the delicious consciousness that
it wouldn't make any difference when I woke up the next morning, or
whether, indeed. I woke at all. So I opened my eyes leisurely and lay
half-dreaming, half-meditating on a variety of things.

I deciphered a few of the texts on the scriptural patch-work quilt which
covered my couch. There were--"Let not your heart be troubled," "Remember
Lot's wife," and "Philander Keeler," traced in inky hieroglyphics, all in
close conjunction.

Finally, I reached out for my watch, and, having ascertained the time of
day, I got