It's curious," he said to himself, "that a man can't see a thing that's
goin' on right under his own eyes and in his own house and that concerns
his own wife."

Suddenly a new sound was heard from the church, a duet of infant wails
that drowned the minister's words, the voices of two young protestants
making known their objections to the rite of infant baptism. John smiled
as he pictured the scene within.

"I wouldn't be in Sam Sawyer's place now for ten dollars," he mentally
declared; "holdin' them squallin' young ones, and everybody in church
laughin' in their sleeves."

The lamentations of the twins gradually subsided. The notes of the organ
sounded, and the choir sang joyfully. There was a hush, then the moving
of many feet as the congregation rose for the benediction; another hush,
then a murmur of voices growing louder as the little crowd crossed the
threshold of the church, and came into the freedom of God's great
out-of-doors.

Mary opened her eyes and started up with an exclamation of self-reproach
at the sight of John in his shirt sleeves and the realization that she
had slept all through the minister's sermon.

"Take it easy," said John, smiling at her and putting on his coat with
more than his usual deliberation. "Your hair's all right, and you look
fifty per cent brighter than you did an hour ago. You needed that nap
worse'n you need Brother Smith's sermon. Now sit still and let me do the
talkin' and explainin'."

"Yes, Mis' Morrison," as the neighbors came hastening up with kindly
inquiries, "Mary wasn't feelin' very well when we started this mornin',
but she's all right now. She's been workin' a little too hard lately,
and I'm afraid I haven't been as careful of her as I ought to 'a'
been."

"Bless her soul!" said Aunt Tabby McElrath, giving Mary a motherly pat
on the head. "You did just right to come out here. There's nothin' like
a hot church for makin' a body feel faint; and a day like this it'd be
better for us all if we'd have the preachin' outdoors as well as the
eatin'. Now, don't you stir, Mary. You're always waitin' on other
people; let other people wait on you for once. And, John, you come with
me, and I'll give you a waiter of nice things for Mary. Nobody can cook
better'n Mary; that I know. But when a person ain't feelin' very well,
they'd rather eat somebody else's cookin' than their own."

"Well, it depends on who the somebody is," said her niece, Sally
McElrath. "I'd rather eat an