ets through in a hurry. We love to have him. He
talks so fast we don't half understand, and before we know it he's got
his hand up and we hear him saying: "And now to the Father and to the
Son--." And the rest is mumbled, but we know he's through and is glad of
it, and so are we.

The Presbyterian Sunday is the longest and solemnest, and I always write
a new story in my mind when Dr. Moffett preaches. He is very learned,
and knows Hebrew and Latin and Greek, but not much about little girls.

Poor Mrs Blamire; she tries to keep awake, but she can't do it; and
after the first five minutes she puffs away just as regular as if she
were wound up. Once I shut my eyes and tried to puff like her, but I
forgot to be careful, and did it so loud the girls came near getting in
trouble. Dr. Moffett is deaf, and didn't hear. Miss Bray heard.

But the Baptist minister don't let you sleep on his Sunday. He used to
try to make the girls come up and profess, but now he don't ask even
that. Just sit where you are and hold up your hand, and when you join
the church--any church will answer--you are saved. I don't understand
it.

We all like the Methodist minister. I don't think he knows many dead
languages. He don't have much time to study, being so busy helping
people; but he knows how to talk to us children, and he always makes me
wish I wasn't so bad. He always does, and the Mary part of me just rises
right up on his Sunday, and Martha is ashamed of herself. He believes in
getting better by the love way. So do I.

Miss Katherine is going away next week to stay two months. Going to her
army brother's first, and then to the California brother, who's North
somewhere. And from the time she told me I've felt like Robinson
Crusoe's daughter would have felt, if he'd had one, and gone off and
left her on that desert island.

I don't know what we're going to do when she goes away. I could shed
gallons of tears, only I don't like tears, and then, too, she might see
me. I want her to think I'm glad she's going, for she needs a change.
But, oh, the difference her going will make!

I will be nothing but Martha. I know it. Nothing but Martha until she
comes back. The Mary part of me is so sick at the thought she hasn't any
backbone, and Martha is showing signs already.

And that shows I'm just nothing, for Miss Katherine has taught us,
without exactly telling, how we can't do what we ought by wanting. We've
got to work. In plain words, its wa