he Sunday feast, all the time with the flush on
her cheek and the fire in her eye that told of a turbulent, eager,
disappointed heart, and not once during the time did she think of the
solemn words of prayer or hymn or sermon, or even _benediction_, of
the morning. She had gotten her text in the church aisle. It was,
"Wherewithal shall I be clothed, in order to sit down at the
marriage-supper of Mrs. Jamison's son and daughter?" And vigorously
was it tormenting her. What an infinitely compassionate God is ours
who made it impossible for Dr. Selmser, as he sat alone in his study
that afternoon, to know what was transpiring in the hearts and homes
of some of his people!

Those chickens sputtered themselves done at last, and the hot and
tired mother, with still the anxious look on her face, stooped and
took them from their fiery bed, and the father awoke with a yawn to
hear himself summoned to the feast. It was later than usual; many
things had detained them; four o'clock _quite_, and before the army
of dishes could be marshaled back into shape, the bell would
certainly toll for evening service. "Let the fear of the Lord be upon
you." And _He_ said, "Remember the Sabbath day, to keep it holy."

Dwight Brower was summoned, too, from his room; and his mother, who
had just realized the strangeness of his absence, looked up as he
came in, and said:

"Are you sick to-day, Dwight?"

"No, ma'am," he answered.

And something in his voice made her look again; and something in his
face made her keep looking, with a perplexed, half-awed air. What had
happened to Dwight? What change had come to him amid the afternoon
hours of that Sabbath day? Very different experiences can be passing
in the same house at the same time.

It was only across the street from the Browers' that little Mrs.
Matthews poured coffee for herself and husband, while Mollie, the
cook, stood on the side-piazza and sang in a loud, shrill, and yet
appreciative tone, "There is rest for the weary." Little Mrs.
Matthews had glowing cheeks, though she had done nothing more serious
than exchange her silken dress for a wrapper, and lie on the sofa and
finish the closing chapters of George Eliot's last new novel, since
her return from church. Aye, it is true. She had been a listener in
the same sanctuary where the earnest charge had rung, "Take heed what
ye do; let the fear of the Lord be upon you." At least Mrs. Matthews
had taken her handsomely clothed little body