t gave rest. With the restored sense of His
fellowship she slept.

Morning dawned with the sweet twittering of birds, the breath of
syringas and roses, and a faultless sky. It was a joy to live.

Hubert was out for an early ride, and his black horse Sahib's satin
coat shone brightly in the morning sunlight. He took the shortest way
out of the city and was soon cantering gently down the country road
beside a singing brook, filling his eyes with the beauty everywhere,
worshiping its Maker, and wondering how he might best serve Him.

Winifred sang morning psalms to the Lord, with a corresponding melody
in her heart. But sometimes the shadow of a question fell athwart the
prospect that seemed so shining. It was about Mrs. Butterworth's
party. Sunday it had seemed very clear that she should not go, but
since, with the seventeenth of John not so fresh in her mind, the
matter seemed not so settled. How should she excuse herself at this
late day? What would Mrs. Butterworth think? More than that, what
would her mother think? Would she not be much annoyed? There was
another factor, too. When George Frothingham was there last evening
she was so glad the party was not mentioned. How could she have told
him she was not going? And when she thought of him she wished to go.
He would be there, looking especially handsome in most careful evening
dress. She could almost hear the strains of Werner's orchestra as she
imagined herself floating over the polished floor with the best of
dancers. There was still another factor. Hanging in her wardrobe,
sheathed carefully in a protecting sheet, was the loveliest of white
dresses. It had been worn but once, and that in another town. Both
her mother and she agreed that it was the very thing for Mrs.
Butterworth's party. What a pity not to wear it! And if staying away
from Mrs. Butterworth's were a precedent to be followed, where should
she ever wear it? A very small reason this, say you. But you are
mistaken. Deeply intrenched in the feminine heart is the desire to be
beautiful, and though "holy women" since the days of old have learned
the supreme excellence of the inward adornment over the outward, the
latter is slow to lose its appeal. Not yet, at least, had Winifred
become indifferent to it.

This morning before descending the stairs she was beguiled into taking
down the dress, just to look at it, spreading it out in fleecy, shining
folds upon the bed. How beautif