ce, solemnly, "there's no one in this village--I'll go
further, and say county--that could touch her. She hasn't the style of
Phoebe, but--there! there's like a light round her when she moves; I
don't know how else to put it. It's like stickin' the scissors into me
every time I cut them low shoulders for her. I always did despise a low
shoulder, long before I ever thought I should be cuttin' of 'em."

"Well, girls," said Mrs. Weight, "you may make the best of it, and it's
handsome in you, I will say, Prudence, for of course you naturally
looked to have the cuttin', and I suppose all dressmakers get something
extry for mournin', seein' it's a necessity, or is thought so by most
Christian people. But I am the wife of the senior deacon of the parish
wherein she sits, and I feel a call to speak to Vesta Blyth before I
sleep this night. Our pastor's wife is young, and though I am aware she
means well, she hasn't the stren'th nor yet the faculty to deal with
folks as is older than herself on spiritual matters; so I feel it laid
upon me--"

"I thought it was clothes you was talkin' about," said Miss Prudence,
and she closed her scissors with a snap. "I hope you'll excuse me, Mis'
Weight, but you speakin' to Vesta Blyth about spiritual matters seems to
me jest a leetle mite like a hen teachin' a swallow to fly."

* * * * *

While this talk was going on, little Miss Vesta, in her gray gown and
white kerchief, was moving softly about the lower rooms of the Temple
of Vesta, setting the chairs in their accustomed places, passing a silk
cloth across their backs in case of finger-marks, looking anxiously for
specks of dust on the shining tables and whatnots, putting fresh flowers
in the vases. Some well-meaning but uncomprehending friends had sent
so-called "funeral flowers," purple and white; to these Miss Vesta added
every glory of yellow, every blaze of lingering scarlet, that the garden
afforded. She threw open the shutters, and let the afternoon sun stream
into the darkened rooms.

Diploma Crotty, standing in a corner, her hands folded in her apron, her
eyes swollen with weeping, watched with growing anxiety the slight
figure that seemed to waver as it moved from very fatigue.

"That strong light'll hurt your eyes, Miss Blyth," she said, presently.
"You go and lay down, and I'll bring you a cup of tea."

"No, I thank you, Diploma," said Miss Vesta, quietly; and she added,
with a soft hurry i