to be a sinner either, according to that view of it."

"It is easy enough to be a sinner anywhere. Hush, I want to listen."

For which want the people all about her must have been very thankful.
Our young ladies gave Dr. Eggleston their attention at the moment when
he was drawling out in his most nasal and ludicrous tones the hymn that
used to be a favorite in Sunday-schools ninety years ago:

"Broad is the road that leads to death,
And thousands walk together there,
But wisdom shows a narrow path,
With here and there a traveler."

The manner in which part of these lines were repeated was irresistibly
funny. To Eurie it was explosively so; she laughed until the seat shook
with mirth. To be sure, she knew nothing about modern Sunday-schools;
for aught that she was certain of, they might have sung that very hymn
in the First Church Sunday-school the Sabbath before; and it made not
the least atom of difference whether they did or not; the way in which
Dr. Eggleston was putting it was funny, and Eurie never spoiled fun for
the sake of sentiment. Presently she looked up at Marion for sympathy.
That young lady's eyes were in a blaze of indignation. What in the world
was the matter with her? Surely she, with her hearty and unquestioning
belief in _nothing_, could not have been disturbed by any jar! Let me
tell you a word about Marion. Away back in her childhood there was a
memory of a little dingy, old-fashioned kitchen, one of the oldest and
dreariest of its kind, where the chimney smoked and the winter wind
crawled in through endless cracks and crannies; where it was not always
possible to get enough to eat during the hardest times; but there was a
large, old-fashioned arm-chair, covered with frayed and faded calico,
and in this chair sat often of a winter evening a clean-faced old man,
with thin and many-patched clothes, with a worn and sickly face, with a
few gray hairs straggling sadly about on his smooth crown: and that old
man used often and often to drone out in a cracked voice and in a tune
pitched too low by half an octave the very words which had just been
repeated in Marion's hearing. What of all that? Why, that little gloomy
kitchen was Marion's memory of home; that old, tired man was her father,
and he used to sing those words while his hand wandered tenderly through
the curls of her brown head, and patted softly the white forehead over
which they fell; and all of love that there was in lif