a bit of reason could I perceive for the twitter the
heads of our pew had certainly got themselves into. There's a pattern
old lady, Prudence Clark, presidentess of the Dorcas Society,--a
spinster, just Aunt Clara's age,--a woman who knows everything, and more
too. She sits in the pew before us. She turned her head and gave a sly
peep at Aunt Clara. They both laughed in meeting. I know they did, and
they can't deny it. I peeped round at the minister, and, if he did not
laugh too, his face was scarlet, and he was taken with a wonderful fit
of coughing. Such strange proceedings in meeting I never had seen. The
minister, the deacon (father is a deacon), and the oldest members were
setting us young folks a very bad example. But we tolerate anything in
our good old parson. He was a youth when our old folks were young, and
as to us young folks, he remembers us longer than we do ourselves.

* * * * *

We were all home, and tea was over,--the early tea with substantials, as
is the custom in the primitive districts of New England on Sunday
afternoon. The double accumulation of dishes was disposed of; for at
noon we take a cold collation, doughnuts and cheese, and bread and
butter, and we never descend to servile employments till after tea. Then
many hands make light work. I suppose light work does not break the
Sabbath, especially as it is done in our Sunday best, with sleeves
tucked up, and an extra apron.

The laughing in church was the point upon which, as yet, we had obtained
no satisfaction. Jerusha and I, in an uncertain hope that we should find
out something in due time, were discussing the music. The particular
point in debate was, why village choirs _will_ astonish the people with
pieces of music in which nobody can join them. We did not settle it, nor
has anybody ever solved the riddle that I know of. We don't even know
whether it comes under the ontological or psychological departments.
(There, now! Haven't I brought in the famous words that our new
schoolmaster astonished us with at the teachers' meeting? He need not
think that Webster Unabridged is his particular field, in which nobody
else may hunt.)

We were, as I said, discussing the music. Mother was flitting round,
giving the final dust-off and brush-about after our early tea. Aunt
Clara was sitting quietly at the window, pretending to read Baxter's
"Saint's Rest." Jerusha and I tried to imitate the tune, and we did it,
as wel