, mamma," said father, "it's nothing to make such a fuss about.
Just trot out some of that apple sauce of yours. Mr. MacGill doesn't get
to taste anything like that every day." He turned to the minister. "The
world's full of apple sauce--but there's apple sauce and apple sauce.
Now my wife's apple sauce is APPLE SAUCE! I tell her it's a dish for a
king."

And Rev. MacGill, after sampling the impromptu dessert, assured his
hostess that her husband's eulogy had been only too moderate. He vowed
he had never eaten such apple sauce. But Mrs. Merriam still looked
bleak. She knew she could make a better deep-dish peach pie than
Mrs. Allen could. And, then, to give the minister apple sauce and
nabiscos!--the first time he had eaten at her table in two months!

Missy, who knew her mother well, couldn't help feeling a deep degree of
sympathy; besides, she wished Rev. MacGill might have had his pie--she
liked Rev. MacGill better than ever. But she dreaded her first moments
after the guest had departed; mother could be terribly stern.

Nor did her fears prove groundless.

"Now, Missy," ordered her mother in coldly irate tones, "you take that
horse straight back to Tess. This is the last straw! For days you've
been no earthly use--your practicing neglected, no time for your chores,
just nothing but that everlasting horse!"

That everlasting horse! Missy's chin quivered and her eyes filled.
But mother went on inflexibly: "I don't want you ever to bring it here
again. And you can't go on living at Tess's, either! We'll see that you
catch up with your practicing."

"But, mother," tremulously seeking for an argument, "I oughtn't to give
up such a fine chance to become a horsewoman, ought I?"

It was an unlucky phrase, for Aunt Nettie was there to catch it up.

"A horsewoman!" and she laughed in sardonic glee. "Well, I must admit
there's one thing horsey enough about you--you always smell of manure,
these days."

Wounded and on the defensive, Missy tried to make her tone chilly. "I
wish you wouldn't be so indelicate, Aunt Nettie," she said.

But Aunt Nettie wasn't abashed. "A horsewoman!" she chortled again. "I
suppose Missy sees herself riding to hounds! All dressed up in a silk
hat and riding-breeches like pictures of society people back East!"

It didn't add to Missy's comfiture to know she had, in truth, harboured
this ridiculed vision of herself. She coloured and stood hesitant.

"Someone ought to put pants on that O'Ne