he good will of people like Barbara Brodie, knew nothing about
dressmaking. This beautiful young man, I'll warrant, is a fish out of
the same net. As for the Bishop being taken with his beauty, that is
nothing! The poorer a man is, the better Bishop Hedley will like him.
So it goes! I wish I knew where Boris Ragnor is--I wish----

"Pshaw! I wonder what kind of a dress Mistress Barbara Brodie brought
Thora. Not much taste in either men or clothes has she! Too large
will the pattern be, or too strong the colours, and too heavy, or
too light, will be the material. I know! And it will not fit her.
Too big, or too little it is sure to be! With my own dress I am
satisfied. And if grandfather asks no questions about it, I shall
count it a lucky dress and save it till Boris comes home. I am
going to forgive him when he comes home--perhaps----Now I will put
the hopes and worries of this world under my pillow and be off to
the Land of Dreams----Tomorrow is Sunday, Easter Sunday--I shall
sing the solo in my new dress--that is good, I like a religious
feeling in a new dress--I think I am rather a religious girl."

Alas for the hopes of all who wanted to dress for Easter. It was an
uncompromising, wet day. It was oil skin and rubber for the men; it
was cloaks and pattens and umbrellas for the women. Yet, aside from
the rain, it was a day full of good things. The cathedral was crowded,
there was full cathedral service, and the Bishop preached a
transfiguring sermon. The music was good, the home choir did well, and
Sunna's solo was effectively sung; but after she had heard Ian
Macrae's "Gloria," she was sorry she had sung at all.

"Grandfather!" she commented, "No private person has a right to sing
as that man sings! After him, non-professionals make a show of
themselves."

"Thou sang well--better than usual, I thought."

"I was told he was such a handsome young man! And he has black hair
and black eyes! Even his skin is dark. He looks like a Celt. I don't
like Celts. None of our people like them. When they come to the
fishing they are not respected."

"Thou art much mistaken. Our men like them."

"Boris Ragnor says they are poor traders."

"Well then, it is to fish they come."

"What they come for is no care of mine. Boris is ten times more of a
man than the best of them. No notice shall I take of this Celt."

"Through thy scorn he may live, and even enjoy his life. The English
officers do that."

"This chicken is bette