ry plain copy of her in body, in mind
she was the elder sister's echo. They were very fond of each other,
and the prettiest thing about them was their faithful love for their
mother, whose memory was kept as green as pastures after rain.

On Sunday Peter Paul went with them to her grave, and then to service.
The ugly little church, the same old clerk, even the look of that part
of the seat where Peter Paul had kicked the paint off during
sermons--all strengthened the feeling that it could only have been a
few days since he was there before.

As they walked home he told his sisters about the various religious
services he had seen abroad. They were curious to hear about them,
under a sort of protest, for they disapproved of every form of worship
but their own.

"The music in some of the cathedrals is very beautiful," said Peter
Paul. "And the choristers in their gowns, singing as they come, always
affect me. No doubt only some are devout at heart, and others
careless--which is also the case with the congregation--but outward
reverence is, at the lowest, an acknowledgment of what we owe, and for
my own part it helps me. Those white figures are not angels I know;
but they make one think of them, and I try to be worthier of singing
GOD'S praises with them."

There was a little pause, and Leena's beautiful eyes were full of
reflections.

Presently she said, "Who washes all the white gowns?"

"I really don't know," said Peter Paul.

"I fancy they don't bleach anywhere as they do in Holland," she
continued. "Indeed, Brother, I doubt if Dutchwomen are what they were.
No one bleaches as Mother did. Mother bleached beautifully."

"Yes, she bleached beautifully," said Anna.

Peter Paul was only to be three weeks at home before he sailed again;
but when ten days were over, he began to think the rest of the time
would never come to an end. And this was from no want of love for his
sisters, or of respect for their friends. One cannot help having an
irritable brain, which rides an idea to the moon and home again,
without stirrups, whilst some folks are getting the harness of words
on to its back. There had been hours in his youth when all the
unsolved riddles, the untasted joys, the great possibilities of even a
common existence like his, so pressed upon him, that the shortness of
the longest life of man seemed the most pitiable thing about it. But
when he took tea with Vrow Schmidt and her daughters, and supper-time
would