equally sure that no old horsehair
lounge subtly invited the wearied traveler to rest.

A cool draft came through the screen door. Within, it was cleaner than
anything Agatha had ever seen. The stair-rail glistened, the polished
floors shone. A neat bouquet of sweet peas stood exactly in the center
of a snow-white doily, which was exactly in the middle of a shiny,
round table. The very door-mat was brand new; Agatha would never have
thought of wiping her shoes on it.

Agatha's ring was answered by a half-grown girl, who looked scared when
she saw a stranger at the door. Agatha walked into the parlor, in
spite of the girl's hesitation In inviting her, and directed her to say
to Mrs. Stoddard that Miss Redmond, from the old red house, wished
particularly to see her. The girl's face assumed an expression of
intelligent and ecstatic curiosity.

"Oh!" she breathed. Then, "She's putting up plums, but she can come
out in a few minutes." She could not go without lingering to look at
Agatha, her wide-eyed gaze taking note of her hair, her dress, her
hands, her face. As Agatha became conscious of the ingenuous
inspection to which she was subjected, she smiled at the girl--one of
her old, radiant, friendly smiles.

"Run now, and tell Mrs. Stoddard, there's a good child! And sometime
you must come to see me at the red house; will you?"

The girl's face lighted up as if the sun had come through a cloud. She
smiled at Agatha in return, with a "Yes" under her breath. Thus are
slaves made.

Left alone in the cool, dim parlor, so orderly and spotless, Agatha had
a presentiment of the prejudice of class and of religion against which
she was about to throw herself. Susan Stoddard's fanaticism was not
merely that of an individual; it represented the stored-up strength of
hardy, conscience-driven generations. The Stoddards might build
themselves houses with model laundries, but they did not thereby
transfer their real treasure from the incorruptible kingdom. If they
were not ruled by aesthetic ideals, neither were they governed by
thoughts of worldly display. This fragrant, clean room bespoke
character and family history. Agatha found herself absently looking
down at a white wax cross, entwined with wax flowers, standing under a
glass on the center-table. It was a strange piece of handicraft. Its
whiteness was suggestive of death, not life, and the curving leaves and
petals, through which the vital sap once flowed