"That's it," said Aunt Jane, delightedly. "There ain't any religion in
restin' unless you're tired, and work's jest as holy in his sight as
rest."

Our faces were turned toward the western sky, where the sun was
sinking behind the amethystine hills. The swallows were darting and
twittering over our heads, a somber flock of blackbirds rose from a
huge oak tree in the meadow across the road, and darkened the sky for
a moment in their flight to the cedars that were their nightly resting
place. Gradually the mist changed from amethyst to rose, and the
poorest object shared in the transfiguration of the sunset hour.

Is it unmeaning chance that sets man's days, his dusty, common days,
between the glories of the rising and the setting sun, and his life,
his dusty, common life, between the two solemnities of birth and
death? Bounded by the splendors of the morning and evening skies, what
glory of thought and deed should each day hold! What celestial dreams
and vitalizing sleep should fill our nights! For why should day be
more magnificent than life?

As we watched in understanding silence, the enchantment slowly faded.
The day of rest was over, a night of rest was at hand; and in the
shadowy hour between the two hovered the benediction of that peace
which "passeth all understanding."

V

MILLY BAKER'S BOY

[Illustration]

It was the last Monday in May, and a steady stream of wagons,
carriages, and horseback riders had been pouring into town over the
smooth, graveled pike.

Aunt Jane stood on her front porch, looking around and above with
evident delight. This was her gala Monday; and if any thoughts of the
County Court days of happier years were in her mind, they were not
permitted to mar her enjoyment of the present. There were no waters of
Marah near her spring of remembrance.

"Clear as a whistle!" she exclaimed, peering through the tendrils of a
Virginia creeper at the sea of blue ether where fleecy white clouds
were floating, driven eastward by the fresh spring wind. "Folks'll
come home dry to-night; last time they was as wet as drowned rats.
Yonder comes the Crawfords, and there's Jim Amos on horseback in front
of 'em. How d'ye, Jim! And yonder comes Richard Elrod in his new
carriage. Jest look at him! I do believe he grows younger and
handsomer every day of his life."

A sweet-faced woman sat beside him, and two pretty girls were in the
seat behind them. Bowing courteously to the old woman on the