ember, Justin Peabody sat in the end seat; the
sister that died, next, and in the corner, against the wall, Mrs.
Peabody, with a crepe shawl and a palm-leaf fan. They were a handsome
family. You used to sit with them sometimes, Nancy; Esther was great
friends with you."

"Yes, she was," Nancy replied, lifting the tattered cushion from its
place and brushing it; "and I with her.--What is the use of scrubbing and
carpeting, when there are only twenty pew-cushions and six hassocks in
the whole church, and most of them ragged? How can I ever mend this?"

"I shouldn't trouble myself to darn other people's cushions!"

This unchristian sentiment came in Mrs. Miller's ringing tones from the
rear of the church.

"I don't know why," argued Maria Sharp. "I'm going to mend my Aunt
Achsa's cushion, and we haven't spoken for years; but hers is the next
pew to mine, and I'm going to have my part of the church look decent,
even if she is too stingy to do her share. Besides, there aren't any
Peabodys left to do their own darning, and Nancy was friends with
Esther."

"Yes, it's nothing more than right," Nancy replied, with a note of relief
in her voice, "considering Esther."

"Though he don't belong to the scrubbin' sex, there is one Peabody alive,
as you know, if you stop to think, Maria; for Justin's alive, and livin'
out West somewheres. At least, he's as much alive as ever he was; he was
as good as dead when he was twenty-one, but his mother was always too
soft-hearted to bury him."

There was considerable laughter over this sally of the outspoken Mrs.
Sargent, whose keen wit was the delight of the neighbourhood.

"I know he's alive and doing business in Detroit, for I got his address a
week or ten days ago, and wrote, asking him if he'd like to give a couple
of dollars toward repairing the old church."

Everybody looked at Mrs. Burbank with interest.

"Hasn't he answered?" asked Maria Sharp.

Nancy Wentworth held her breath, turned her face to the wall, and
silently wiped the paint of the wainscoting. The blood that had rushed
into her cheeks at Mrs. Sargent's jeering reference to Justin Peabody
still lingered there for any one who ran to read, but fortunately nobody
ran; they were too busy scrubbing.

"Not yet. Folks don't hurry about answering when you ask them for a
contribution," replied the president, with a cynicism common to persons
who collect funds for charitable purposes. "George Wickham sent me
twe