ur bonnet! Here let me hold up the candle and
look."

"Don't--don't drop the grease on my brown silk, Martha."

"Brown fiddlestick! Hold your head steady. Well--I never! The vanity of
some folk! The apings of some people. Oh, I haven't a word to say if you
like to make a show of yourself. I respect my years. I live up to them.
Some people, I won't name who--don't."

"Had I better take off the bonnet, Martha? I thought these very
_large_ chrysanthemums--I chose them on purpose--"

"Hideous--you're a perfect fright! Look at me. Is there anything to
laugh at in my velvet bonnet? Does it poke itself on the back of my
head? And does it deck itself in pink and yellow?"

"It looks funereal, Martha, it's all black."

"Funereal! It looks suitable. Come on, or we'll be late."

The two ladies left the house. They walked quickly in the early morning
light. Presently, they were joined by Mrs. Gorman Stanley. She was
completely clothed in bridal garments of yellow. Her robe was yellow
satin, her bonnet was to match, with blue forget-me-nots cozily nestling
in its folds. Mrs. Morris joined the group in terra-cotta cashmere, with
a cream lace bonnet. Round her face and mouth she had enveloped a black
woollen shawl, but this was to be discarded presently.

As the ladies walked to the church they were joined by several more
Beatricites, and when at last they found themselves under the shadow of
the old tower, and in the shelter of the ancient porch, they were quite
a goodly company.

"We'll just fill the front seats comfortably," said Mrs. Butler. "When
Mrs. Bell and her Hartites arrive they'll have to go behind."

"But how are we to get in?" again questioned Miss Maria.

"Oh, I'll manage that. I have it all arranged. I spoke to Hunt
yesterday."

Hunt was not only the baker, he was the church verger. He had quite
sympathized with Mrs. Butler's wishes, while selling her a two-penny
loaf yesterday. But why did he not put in an appearance now?

"Martha," again whispered Miss Maria, "Who are those people creeping
round there by the south wall?"

"No one," snapped Mrs. Butler. "You're fanciful this morning, Maria.
It's those horrid lemon-colored chrysanthemums; they have turned your
head."

"I don't know about that," retorted Miss Peters. "I am sure I saw Mrs.
Bell's snuff-colored bonnet."

Mrs. Butler sniffed. She would not retort again; but she was conscious
of a little sense of uneasiness. It was difficult, even for a p