ssor, with his
slightly bent figure and his white hair; there was Mrs. Merriman, round
and cherubic, looking as though no care had ever troubled her; and there
was Lucy, fair almost as the Singletons, with that particularly prim
face which aggravated Rosamund, and which would certainly drive Irene to
distraction. None of these three even glanced at Rosamund Cunliffe and
her friend; but when Laura Everett and one or two other girls appeared,
they did see the pair seated in a pew all alone at the end of the
church, and Laura nodded with a bright glance at Rosamund, who colored
with pleasure in reply.

"Is that stiff un, all prunes and prisms, Lucy?" whispered Irene in a
loud voice.

"I'll talk to you afterwards," said Rosamund. "The service is going to
begin. This is the right place. I will find all your places for you
to-night. You will find the service so nice. Remember, we are here to
pray to God, and not to think evil of our fellow-creatures."

"You're getting quite too goody-goody," laughed Irene in an excited
voice.

The service began; the music, of the simplest kind, but quite sweet and
true, filled the little church. Irene fidgeted, turned first white, then
red, and finally, grasping Rosamund's arm, said in a choking voice, "I
don't like it. I can't stand the music. The wild, wild thing in me is
just as though it would tear me in pieces. I must get out. Come! You
promised to come with me."

Rosamund took her eccentric young friend outside the church.

"What is the matter, Irene? You ought to try to control yourself."

"I do as a rule. I am much better as a rule; but it came over me in
church how proper people were, and they all of them talk about being
miserable sinners, and every one looks so good and righteous, and
knowing down deep in their hearts that every single one of them is a
miserable sinner, except your darling, precious self; and they all
repeat the words, not feeling them a bit. I couldn't be like that. If
they'd all lie flat on their faces, and cry and tear their hair, or do
anything to show that they were really sorry, I could sympathize with
them. But I can't sympathize with the proper sort of people who fill a
village church."

"They have learned to control themselves. They very likely do feel that
they are miserable sinners in the sight of God. We must learn not to
judge people. Oh, Irene, what am I to do with you? What will you do when
I am gone?"

"I know what I will do when you are