the garden before," he continued,
"and I will go there again and pluck the flowers that come in my path. I
will hold them for a minute; then I will crush them and cast them aside,
and I will laugh, too."

CHAPTER XI.

UNDER THE WILLOWS.

The bell of the Fairville Presbyterian Church was slowly tolling the
hour of morning service, and its tones, clanging out through the bright
green shutters of the belfry on the peaceful Sabbath air, summoned the
congregation to worship. The sun shone brightly upon the little white
church, with its peaked roof and its tall, weather-vaned steeple, and
its rays glanced hotly down upon the dusty roadway and wooden sidewalks
of the long, village street. Two rows of white frame houses, fronted by
little green patches, each enclosed by a picket fence and a swinging
gate, extended away in the distance. Two lines of stately elms cast
their shadows partially over the dusty street, while above them
stretched the blue vault of the June sky.

The tolling of the bell was the only sound that disturbed the perfect
quiet of the day, for even the birds seemed to have ceased their
chirping in deference to the Sabbath. Soon, however, in answer to the
call to prayer, the little picket gates swung open, and far down the
street a slender line of people began to walk, with the measured tread
of conscious righteousness, toward the little church which gleamed so
white in the sunshine at the end of the street. The board walk creaked
under the squeaking tread of Sunday shoes, and solemn lips spoke in
subdued Sunday tones, as elders and laity slowly wended along under the
shade of the stately elms. White lawn dresses, leghorn bonnets and blue
shawls, folded cross-wise, and lisle-thread gloves, were interspersed
among flopping broadcloth coats and straight brimmed hats in the throng
which passed along the street and through the doors of the church. Once,
just after the last tone of the bell had died away, the stillness was
broken by the rumble of wheels, and a single carriage rolled through the
dust up to the church door. It was a modest equipage, plain in its
appointments, but some of the congregation frowned disapprovingly as the
door opened and Florence Moreland and her father descended. Without
heeding these glances of disapprobation, they walked quietly into the
church and passed down the long aisle to the family pew. The movement of
numerous fans ceased and many heads were turned to see the Judge a