things! It is not neglect;
it is not disapproval,--we simply forget. But from such forgetfulness
may the good Lord graciously deliver us, one and all!

There! I fancy that I have made for Mrs. Guest--sitting meantime in her
cushioned pew (directly behind Halcombe Dike), and comfortably looking
over the "Watts and Select" with Methuselah--a better defence than ever
she could have made for herself. Between you and me, girls,--though you
need not tell your mother,--I think it is better than she deserves.

Sharley, upstairs, had slammed her door and locked it, and was pacing
hotly back and forth across her room. Poor Sharley! Sun and moon and
stars were darkened; the clouds had returned after the rain. She tore
off the new hat and Sunday things savagely; put on her old
chocolate-colored morning-dress, with a grim satisfaction in making
herself as ugly as possible; pulled down the ribboned chignon which she
had braided, singing, half an hour ago (her own, that chignon); screwed
her hair under a net into the most unbecoming little pug of which it was
capable, and went drearily down stairs. Nate, enacting the cheerful
drama of "Jeff Davis on a sour apple-tree," hung from the balusters,
purple, gasping, tied to the verge of strangulation by the energetic
Moppet. The baby was calmly sitting in the squash-pies.

Halcombe Dike, coming home from church that morning a little in advance
of the crowd, saw a "Pre-raphaelite" in the doorway of Mr. Guest's barn,
and quietly unlatching the gate came nearer to examine it. It was worth
examining. There was a ground of great shadows and billowy hay; a pile
of crimson apples struck out by the light through a crack; two children
and a kitten asleep together in a sunbeam; a girl on the floor with a
baby crawling over her; a girl in a chocolate-colored dress with yellow
leaves in her hair,--her hair upon her shoulders, and her eyelashes wet.

"Well, Sharley!"

She looked up to see him standing there with his grave, amused smile.
Her first thought was to jump and run; her second, to stand fire.

"Well, Mr. Halcombe! Moppet's stuck yellow leaves all over me; my hair's
down; I've got on a horrid old morning-dress; look pretty to see
company, don't I?"

"Very, Sharley."

"Besides," said Sharley, "I've been crying, and my eyes are red."

"So I see."

"No, you don't, for I'm not looking at you."

"But I am looking at you."

"Oh!"

"What were you crying about, Sharley!"

"Because my g