hat church, too. Indeed, it was
for all the world like the advertisement sheets of _Architectonic
Ecclesiology_ (ask for this paper at your club), and every window was
brim full of new stained glass, and every inch of floor-space was new
encaustic tiles. And, what was more, there was a new mosaic over the
chancel-arch--a modest and wobbly little arch in itself, that seemed
afflicted with its position, and to want to get away into a quiet
corner and meditate. Sally said so, and added so should she, if she
were it.

"I wonder if the woolstapler was married here to one or other of the
little square women," said she.

"I wonder why the angels up there look so sulky," said Dr. Conrad. And
then Sally, who seemed absent-minded, found something else to wonder
about--a certain musical whistling noise that filled the little church.
But it was only a big bunch of moonwort on a stained-glass-window
sill, and the wind was blowing through a vacancy that should have been
a date, and making AEolian music. The little maid with the key found
her voice over this suddenly. Her bruvver had done that, she said
with pride. He had oymed a stoo-an when it was putten up, and brokken
t' glass. So that stained glass was very new indeed, evidently.

"I wonder why they call that stuff 'honesty,' Miss Sally?" said the
doctor. Sally, feeling that the interest of either in the church was
really perfunctory, said vaguely--did they? And then, recoiling from
further wonderment, and, indeed, feeling some terror of becoming
idiotic if this sort of thing went on much longer, she exclaimed, with
reality in her voice: "Because it's not pretending to take an interest
when it doesn't, like us. But I wish you wouldn't, Dr. Conrad; I do
hate it so."

"Hate what? Taking an interest or calling it honesty? _I_ didn't call
it honesty. _They_ did, whoever they are!"

"No, no--I don't mean that. Never mind. I'll tell you when we're out.
Come along--that is, if you've seen enough of the tidy mosaic and the
tidy stained glass, and the tidy nosegays on the tidy table." The
doctor came along--seemed well satisfied to do so. But this was the
third time Sally had wished that Dr. Conrad wouldn't, and this time
she felt she must explain. She wasn't at all sure that the name of
that herb hadn't somehow got into the atmosphere--caught on, as it
were, and twitted her. After all, why shouldn't she speak a plain
thought to an old friend, as poor Prosy was now? Who could gainsa