shock. I do hope," Peggy sighed, "I do hope them specs was
long-distance ones. The good Lord knows Mrs. Birkdale had favourable
reasons for seeing as far off as possible!"

"They was," Isa nodded. "I tried 'em, and things was all blurred to me."

And then the women parted gloomily, to meet again at Joyce's wedding.

It was such a day as only the mountains know. A hushed, golden day with
a mysterious softness of outline on the distant hills.

The little crumbling church was open to the beauty of the morning, and
John Gaston had decked it within with every flowering thing he could
gather from wood and meadow.

Jock came early and stood in one of the narrow doors of the church,
opening upon the highway. His hands were plunged in his pockets, and a
look of concentration was on his handsome face.

He was going to "set," so he thought, his baby parson on to Jude. There
was excitement in the idea. While he stood there Gaston came and took
his stand at the other narrow door. The architect of the St. Ange church
had had ideas of propriety in regard to established rules.

"Looks--some! don't it?" Jock asked.

"Yes," Gaston replied; "I was bound to have it look as wedding-like as
possible."

"You did the decorating?" Jock asked, and a curious frown settled
between his eyes. "I thought it was the women."

"They're thinking of themselves. Is your parson on to the game, Filmer?"

"He's all right. Gone off to commune with Nater. There he is now."

Drew had entered the rear door, and went at once to the small bare
pulpit.

"Umph!" whispered Gaston. "Looks like a picture of John the Baptist."

"He don't act like it." Jock was in arms at once against any suspected
criticism. "He's got more sand than many a blasted heavyweight. You
ought to hear his gab--it's the newest thing in soul-saving. Sort o'
homeopathic doctrine. Tastes good, but bitter as pisen under the
coating. Real stuff inside, and all that. Get's working after it's
taken, and the sweet taste lasts in your mouth while your innards are
acting like--"

The people were gathering. They passed by Jock and Gaston without
recognition. Social functions in St. Ange ignored all familiar
intimacies.

Jude and Joyce came through the rear door, and sat in the front pew.

The girl moved with the absorption of a sleepwalker beside Jude whose
shufflings bespoke nervous tension. Every now and then he glanced
sheepishly at Joyce. Even to his senses, accustomed as they were