him, without being in the least uncivil, left the
impression on his mind that he had been duly persistent. There was an
awkward silence of a few moments, and he was just about to burst forth
with he knew not what exclamations and entreaties, when Madeline rose,
saying--

"Excuse me a moment; I think I hear my mother calling," and left the
room.

She was gone some time, and returned and sat down with an absent and
preoccupied expression of face, and he did not linger.

The next Thursday evening he was at conference meeting, intending to walk
home with Madeline if she would let him; to ask her, at least. She was
there, as usual, and sat at the melodeon. A few minutes before nine
Cordis came in, evidently for the mere purpose of escorting her home.
Henry doggedly resolved that she should choose between them then and
there, before all the people. The closing hymn was sung, and the buzz of
the departing congregation sounded in his ears as if it were far away. He
rose and took his place near the door, his face pale, his lips set,
regardless of all observers. Cordis, with whom he was unacquainted save
by sight, stood near by, good-humouredly smiling, and greeting the people
as they passed out.

In general, Madeline liked well enough the excitement of electing between
rival suitors, but she would rather, far rather, have avoided this public
choice tonight. She had begun to be sorry for Henry. She was as long as
possible about closing the melodeon. She opened and closed it again. At
length, finding no further excuse for delaying, she came slowly down the
aisle, looking a little pale herself. Several of the village young folks
who understood the situation lingered, smiling at one other, to see the
fun out, and Cordis himself recognized his rival's tragical look with an
amused expression, at the same time that he seemed entirely disposed to
cross lances with him.

As Madeline approached the door, Henry stepped forward and huskily asked
if he might take her home. Bowing to him with a gracious smile of
declination, she said, "Thanks," and, taking Cordis's arm, passed out
with him.

As they came forth into the shadow of the night, beyond the illumination
of the porch lamps of the church, Cordis observed--

"Really, that was quite tragical. I half expected he would pull out a
revolver and shoot us both. Poor fellow, I'm sorry for him."

"He was sorrier than you are glad, I dare say, said Madeline.

"Well, I don't know about