ar. For a time that spring, the garden almost ran to weeds.
Then, because a long dormant consciousness stirred in Mrs. Withington,
she went into the attic and brought down woven treasures; and one
Sunday, Ellen, her cheeks scarlet with the excitement of it, walked to
church in a shot silk, all blue and pink, and a hat with a long white
feather over her golden hair. There were pink roses under the brim, and
they paled beside her face.

"God sakes!" whispered Milton Richardson, in the singing-seats, "Ellen
Withington's a beauty!"

The girls rustled their starched petticoats and nudged one another.

"Ain't she come out!" said one; and another answered,--

"My stars! she's the cutest thing I ever see in all _my_ life!"

Even the minister, who was then accounted an old man, being between
forty-five and fifty, stopped on his way down the aisle where Ellen
waited for her mother, busy in matronly conclave, and shook hands with
her.

"I am very glad to see you out, my dear Ellen," said he. "You have been
absent quite a while."

She looked up at him, her blue eyes full of wonder; everybody knew she
had been regularly to church ever since she was a little girl. But the
minister smiled warmly at her and went on.

The next Sunday she came to church in a foam of white like a pear tree.
That day Henry Fox, who lingered still unmated, strode up to her and
remarked, while a cordial circle stood about to hear, "Pretty warm
to-day." This was equivalent to "See you home?" at evening meeting.

"Yes," said she, desperately, "real warm." Then she caught her mother's
hand and clung to it; and though Henry kept a dogged step beside them to
their gate, it was only Mrs. Withington who spoke.

When the two women were inside the great cool sitting-room, Ellen was
holding still by that hard, faithful hand. "Mother," she entreated
breathlessly, "I needn't ever be with anybody but you, need I?"

Jealous arms were about her even before the words had time to come.

"No! no! you're mother's own girl."

The very next Wednesday Ellen went alone to match some trimming; her
maiden outfit neared completion, and she was in haste to finish it. The
garden needed her. When she had struck into the pine woods on her way
home a wagon rattled up behind, and Milton Richardson called out,
"Ride?"

She was too timid to say, "No," and so she took his hand and climbed up
to the seat beside him. The horse fell into a walk, and Ellen blushed
more and more b