. Does he?"

"I never saw anything like it before," said Mrs. Milholland. "He went
down in the cellar and polished his own shoes."

"What!"

"For about an hour, I think," she said, as one remaining calm before a
miracle. "And he only has three neckties, but I saw him several times in
each of them. He must have kept changing and changing. I wonder--" She
paused.

"I'm glad he's begun to take a little care of his appearance at last.
Business men think a good deal about that, these days, when he comes to
make his start in the world. I'll have to take a look at him and give
him a word of praise. I suppose he'll be in the pew when we get there."

But Ramsey wasn't in the pew; and Charlotte, his sister, and her
husband, who were there, said they hadn't seen anything of him. It was
not until the members of the family were on their way home after the
services that they caught a glimpse of him.

They were passing a church a little distance from their own; here the
congregation was just emerging to the open, and among the sedate throng
descending the broad stone steps appeared an accompanied Ramsey--and a
red, red Ramsey he was when he beheld his father and mother and sister
and brother-in-law staring up at him from the pavement below. They were
kind enough not to come to an absolute halt, but passed slowly on, so
that he was just able to avoid parading up the street in front of
them. The expressions of his father, mother, and sister were of a
dumfoundedness painful to bear, while such lurking jocosity as that
apparent all over his brother-in-law no dignified man should either
exhibit or be called upon to ignore.

In hoarse whispers, Mrs. Milholland chided her husband for an
exclamation he had uttered. "John! On Sunday! You ought to be ashamed."

"I couldn't help it," he exclaimed. "Who on earth is his clinging vine?
Why, she's got _lavender_ tops on her shoes and--"

"Don't look round!" she warned him sharply. "Don't--"

"Well, what's he doing at a Baptist church? What's he fidgeting at his
handkerchief about? Why can't he walk like people? Does he think it's
obligatory to walk home from church anchored arm-in-arm like Swedes on a
Sunday Out? Who _is_ this cow-eyed fat girl that's got him, anyhow?"

"Hush! Don't look round again, John."

"Never fear!" said her husband, having disobeyed. "They've turned off;
they're crossing over to Bullard Street. Who is it?"

"I think her name's Rust," Mrs. Milholland informed hi