id to Ranald, "that Donald Stewart was
ordained last May?"

"No," replied Ranald; "that makes seven, doesn't it?"

"Seven what?" said Kate.

"Seven men preaching the Gospel to-day out of our own congregation,"
replied Mrs. Murray.

"But, auntie," cried Harry, "I have always thought that all that must
have been awfully hard work."

"It was," said Ranald, emphatically; and he went on to sketch Mrs.
Murray's round of duties in her various classes and meetings connected
with the congregation.

"Besides what she has to do in the manse!" exclaimed Harry; "but it's a
mere trifle, of course, to look after her troop of boys."

"How can you do it?" said Kate, gazing at her in admiring wonder.

"It isn't so terrible as Harry thinks. That's my work, you see," said
Mrs. Murray; "what else would I do? And when it goes well it is worth
while."

"But, auntie, don't you feel sometimes like getting away and having a
little fun? Own up, now."

"Fun?" laughed Mrs. Murray.

"Well, not fun exactly, but a good time with things you enjoy so much,
music, literature, and that sort of thing. Do you remember, Kate, the
first time you met auntie, when we took her to Hamlet?"

Kate nodded.

"She wasn't quite sure about it, but I declare till I die I will never
forget the wonder and the delight in her face. I tell you I wept that
night, but not at the play. And how she criticised the actors; even
Booth himself didn't escape," continued Harry; "and so I say it's a
beastly shame that you should spend your whole life in the backwoods
there and have so little of the other sort of thing. Why you are made
for it!"

"Harry," answered Mrs. Murray, in surprise, "that was my work, given
me to do. Could I refuse it? And besides after all, fun, as you say,
passes; music stops; books get done with; but those other things, the
things that Ranald and I have seen, will go on long after my poor body
is laid away."

"But still you must get tired," persisted Harry.

"Yes, I get tired," she replied, quietly. At the little touch of
weariness in the voice, Kate, who was looking at the beautiful face, so
spiritual, and getting, oh, so frail, felt a sudden rush of tears in
her eyes. But there was no self-pity in that heroic soul. "Yes, I get
tired," she repeated, "but, Harry, what does that matter? We do our work
and then we will rest. But oh, Harry, my boy, when I come to your city
and see all there is to do, I wish I were a girl again, and I wonder a