er by the fireplace stood the selfsame basket
that had been her mother's then--just where she had kept it, too, when
it was running over with little frocks and stockings that were always
waiting finishing or mending--and now held only the plain gray knitting
work and the bit of sewing that Aunt Faith might have in hand.

A small, square table stood now in the middle of the floor, with a fresh
brown linen breakfast cloth upon it; and Glory, neat and fresh, also,
with her brown spotted calico dress and apron of the same, came in
smiling like a very goddess of peace and plenty, with the steaming
coffeepot in one hand, and the plate of fine, white rolls in the other.
The yellow print of butter and some rounds from a brown loaf were
already on the table. Glory brought in, presently, the last addition to
the meal--six eggs, laid yesterday, the water of their boiling just
dried off, and modestly took her own seat at the lower end of the board.

Aunt Faith, living alone, kept to the kindly old country fashion of
admitting her handmaid to the table with herself. "Why not?" she would
say. "In the first place, why should we keep the table about, half an
hour longer than we need? And I suppose hot cakes and coffee are as much
nicer than cold, for one body as another. Then where's the sense? We
take Bible meat together. Must we be more dainty about 'meat that
perisheth'?" So her argument climbed up from its lower reason to its
climax.

Glory had little of the Irish now about her but her name. And all that
she retained visibly of the Roman faith she had been born to, was her
little rosary of colored shells, strung as beads, that had been blessed
by the Pope.

Miss Henderson had trained and fed her in her own ways, and with such
food as she partook herself, physically and spiritually. Glory sat,
every Sunday, in the corner pew of the village church, by her mistress's
side. And this church-going being nearly all that she had ever had, she
took in the nutriment that was given her, to a soul that recognized it,
and never troubled itself with questions as to one truth differing from
another, or no. Indeed, no single form or theory could have contained
the "credo" of her simple, yet complex, thought. The old Catholic
reverence clung about her still, that had come with her all the way from
her infancy, when her mother and grandmother had taught her the prayers
of their Church; and across the long interval of ignorance and neglect
flung