"But I was talking with Miss Susan about
passing through the Church, and Miss Susan----"

The blue eyes flashed. And once more Mrs. Milo advanced. "Never mind
what my daughter told you," she commanded, but without raising her voice.
"I am compelled to make this Rectory my home because Miss Milo does the
secretarial work of the parish. And what kind of a home should I have if
I allowed the place to be in continual disorder?"

There was a pause, the two facing each other. Then the look of the
florist fell. "I'll go in by way of the Church, madam," he announced.
And turned away with a stiff bow.

"One moment." The order was curt; but as he brought up, and turned about
once more, Mrs. Milo spoke almost confidentially. "As you very well
know," she reminded, her face slightly averted, "there is a third
entrance to the Close."

The florist saw his opportunity. "Oh, yes," he declared; "--the little
white door where the ladies come of a night to leave their orphans."

That brought Mrs. Milo about. And the color deepened in her cheeks. It
was the red, not only of anger, but of modesty. "The women who desert
their infants in that basket," she replied (again that sorrowful
intonation), "are not ladies."

The florist was highly pleased with results. "That may be so," he went
on, with renewed boldness; "but for my ladders, and my plants, the little
white door is too small, and so----" He stopped short. His jaw dropped.
His eyes widened, and fixed themselves in undisguised admiration upon a
young woman who had entered the room behind Mrs. Milo--a lankish, but
graceful young woman, radiant in a gown of shimmering satin, her fair
hair haloed by carefully carried lengths of misty tulle. "And so,"
resumed the florist, absent-mindedly, "and so--and so----"

Mrs. Milo moved across the carpet to a sofa, adjusted a velvet cushion,
and seated herself. "Go and do your work," she said sharply. "It must
be finished this afternoon. And remember: I don't want to see you in
this room again."

"Very well, madam." With a smile and a bow, neither of which was
intended for Mrs. Milo, the florist recovered his self-possession, threw
wide his hands in a gesture that was an eloquent tribute to the shining
apparition at the farther end of the room, and backed out.

"Ha-a-a!" sighed Mrs. Milo--with gratification in her triumph over the
decorator, and with a sense of comfort in that cushioned corner of her
favorite sofa. She set