et you started and stay until nearly four, when I have a
committee meeting. Would you be willing to try, dear?"

"Oh, I'd like it ever so much," she returned, really captivated by the
idea. He looked relieved and smiled gratefully.

"There, Jack, it's just as I told you it would be," exclaimed Mrs.
Middleton, patting a pink satin bow complacently. "I said to your
uncle, Elsie love, that a girl of sixteen is almost a woman--I was only
seventeen when I was married--and that he could make an assistant of
you right away."

Her smile faded and her hand went to her heart in an affected way.

"My being such a sad invalid is a terrible drag on your uncle, though
he won't confess it," she added feebly. "I often and often drop a
secret tear over it, I own; but now that there'll be some one to help
with the little services that would naturally fall to a pastor's wife,
I shall be quite content. You know how the poet says that others shall
sing the song and right the wrong? 'What matter I or they?' That is
how it seems to me."

Mr. Middleton gazed at his wife tenderly, but Elsie's youthful scorn
increased. She was not sufficiently mature to understand that it shows
something of character to look on kindly while another younger, fairer
person steps in to fulfil duties that should have been one's own, even
though one may have repudiated them.

Directly lunch was over, Elsie ran up-stairs--something she seldom had
done--unfastened her trunk, took out an embroidered white linen suit
and dressed quickly. She could scarcely wait until time to go to the
library. She was ready to lose the train to-day, and even to-morrow if
need be.

At the library, she found the procedure simple and easily acquired. It
was fascinating, also, as was the great airy room; and she wandered
about through the stacks, and gazed at the books, magazines, pictures,
maps and bulletin-board in a sort of dream. It was a warm day and no
one came in during the first half-hour.

Mr. Middleton had scarcely left, however, when a little girl in a
scant, faded frock that was clean, however, and freshly starched, came
shyly in with a book--a child of nine or ten with an anxious expression
on her old, refined little face which hadn't yet lost all its baby
curves.

"Why, where's Miss Rachel?" she asked, the look of anxiety fading and a
shy little smile appearing in its stead.

Elsie explained.

"Well, I think you're ever 'n' ever so much nicer, and so p