mused.

At this point Harriet broke in.

"Before you do anything else," said she, "I want you all to come out and
have a bite to eat."

That's the way with Harriet. Just at the moment when you've set your
scenery, staged your play, and the curtain is about to go up, she
appears with--gingerbread--and stampedes the entire company. Why, you
couldn't have kept Fergus----

Harriet had put on her choicest tablecloth and the precious napkins left
her by our great-aunt Dorcas, and the old thin glass dishes that came
from Grandmother Scribner, which are never used except upon high
occasions. It was Sunday night and, as Harriet explained, we never have
any supper on Sunday night. There was thick yellow gingerbread, with
just a hint in it (not a bit too much and not too little) of the
delectable molasses of which it was made, and perfect apple sauce from
the earliest Red Astrakhans, cooked so that the rosy quarters looked
plump, with sugary crystals sparkling upon them, and thin glass tumblers
(of Grandmother Scribner's set) full of sweet milk, yellow and almost
foamy at the top.

There are perfect moments in this life!

Nort was in the wildest spirits, the rebound from his unusual mood of
seriousness. Nothing escaped him--neither the napkins, nor the spoons,
nor the thin old glass, nor the perfect gingerbread, nor the marvellous
apple sauce, nor the glow in Harriet's face. She knew that Nort would
see it all! Harriet is never so beautiful as when she sits at the head
of her own table, her moment of supreme artistry.

"I went to church to-day," said Nort finally.

"You did!" Harriet was vastly pleased.

"Yes," smiled Nort.

This was truly a youth after her own heart.

"Nothing else to do on Sunday in Hempfield," said Nort; "and it was
interesting."

He stopped and looked slowly around at me.

"The truth about the church in Hempfield, David!" he exclaimed, as
though we had a secret between us.

I laughed.

"That's one thing," I said, "you can't easily tell the truth about--in
Hempfield."

"Why not?" asked Harriet with astonishment. "Is there anything that
should encourage one to truth-telling more than the church?"

"Read it, Nort," said I, "read it."

"Well," said Nort, again drawing forth his manuscript, "you know what
the ordinary church report in the _Star_ is like. 'The usual services
were held last Sunday morning at the Congregational Church. An
appreciative audience listened to an eloquent sermon by