o be owned by nice little
girl-mothers, and all for the church organ, the minister's salary and
such like. Of this description was the church fair held in Brookville
to raise money to pay the Reverend Wesley Elliot. He came early, and
haunted the place like a morbid spirit. He was both angry and shamed
that such means must be employed to pay his just dues, but since it
had to be he could not absent himself.

There was no parlor in the church, and not long after the infamous
exit of Andrew Bolton the town hall had been destroyed by fire.
Therefore all such functions were held in a place which otherwise was
a source of sad humiliation to its owner: Mrs. Amos Whittle, the
deacon's wife's unfurnished best parlor. It was a very large room,
and poor Mrs. Whittle had always dreamed of a fine tapestry carpet,
furniture upholstered with plush, a piano, and lace curtains.

Her dreams had never been realized. The old tragedy of the little
village had cropped dreams, like a species of celestial foliage,
close to their roots. Poor Mrs. Whittle, although she did not realize
it, missed her dreams more than she would have missed the furniture
of that best parlor, had she ever possessed and lost it. She had come
to think of it as a room in one of the "many mansions," although she
would have been horrified had she known that she did so. She was one
who kept her religion and her daily life chemically differentiated.
She endeavored to maintain her soul on a high level of orthodoxy,
while her large, flat feet trod her round of household tasks. It was
only when her best parlor, great empty room, was in demand for some
social function like the church fair, that she felt her old dreams
return and stimulate her as with some wine of youth.

The room was very prettily decorated with blossoming boughs, and
Japanese lanterns, and set about with long tables covered with white,
which contained the articles for sale. In the center of the room was
the flower-booth, and that was lovely. It was a circle of green, with
oval openings to frame young girl-faces, and on the circular shelf
were heaped flowers in brilliant masses. At seven o'clock the fair
was in full swing, as far as the wares and saleswomen were concerned.
At the flower-booth were four pretty girls: Fanny Dodge, Ellen Dix,
Joyce Fulsom and Ethel Mixter. Each stood looking out of her frame of
green, and beamed with happiness in her own youth and beauty. They
did not, could not share the anx