The bell of the Fairville Presbyterian Church was slowly tolling the hour of morning service, and its tones, clanging out through the bright green shutters of the belfry on the peaceful Sabbath air, summoned the congregation to worship. The sun shone brightly upon the little white church, with its peaked roof and its tall, weather-vaned steeple, and its rays glanced hotly down upon the dusty roadway and wooden sidewalks of the long, village street. Two rows of white frame houses, fronted by little green patches, each enclosed by a picket fence and a swinging gate, extended away in the distance. Two lines of stately elms cast their shadows partially over the dusty street, while above them stretched the blue vault of the June sky.

The tolling of the bell was the only sound that disturbed the perfect quiet of the day, for even the birds seemed to have ceased their chirping in deference to the Sabbath. Soon, however, in answer to the call to prayer, the little picket gates swung open, and far down the street a slender line of people began to walk, with the measured tread of conscious righteousness, toward the little church which gleamed so white in the sunshine at the end of the street. The board walk creaked under the squeaking tread of Sunday shoes, and solemn lips spoke in subdued Sunday tones, as elders and laity slowly wended along under the shade of the stately elms. White lawn dresses, leghorn bonnets and blue shawls, folded cross-wise, and lisle-thread gloves, were interspersed among flopping broadcloth coats and straight brimmed hats in the throng which passed along the street and through the doors of the church. Once, just after the last tone of the bell had died away, the stillness was broken by the rumble of wheels, and a single carriage rolled through the dust up to the church door. It was a modest equipage, plain in its appointments, but some of the congregation frowned disapprovingly as the door opened and Florence Moreland and her father descended. Without heeding these glances of disapprobation, they walked quietly into the church and passed down the long aisle to the family pew. The movement of numerous fans ceased and many heads were turned to see the Judge and his daughter take their seats, while several pairs of young and envious eyes were directed toward the last production of a city milliner. After the fans had begun to move again, the cadaverous minister rose from his seat and in harsh, nasal tones announced the hymn. There was a hemming and coughing in the choir's gallery, the organ bellows wheezed, hymn-books rustled, and then, as the first strains of the organ sounded, the old familiar lines beginning, "All people that on earth do dwell," swelled forth in zealous tones.

Just as the last notes of the tune floated away and the congregation were taking their seats, a man stole quietly down the aisle and entered the pew behind Florence Moreland. His well-made clothes attracted curious eyes, and during the seemingly interminable prayer for the exorcism of every evil and the granting of all known blessings, many covert glances were sent in his direction. It seemed to those who looked, that during the prayer and the long didactic discourse upon Solomon and Sheba's queen, which followed, his eyes were kept continuously fixed upon the back of a gold-braided jacket in front of him. The doctor's daughter next him glanced over his book during the last hymn and saw that it was not open at the right place, while the elder who passed the plate looked wonderingly at the young Croesus who placed a greenback among the coppers and silver; but during the entire service his eyes were not removed from the form in front of him. The last roll of the organ died away and the minister pronounced his benedictory prayer. During the conventional moment of silence which followed, the sun streamed through the stained glass windows and danced in colored shadows on the backs of the white lawn gowns; then the frocks rustled as the congregation slowly filed out, and the solemn, Sunday faces were relaxed into smiles of friendly greeting.

Florence Moreland waited until most of the people had passed out, then she placed her hand upon the pew door, and was about to open it, when she was startled by the sight of a familiar face behind her. "Harold," she said, when she had recovered from her surprise. "What brought you to Fairville?"

"I came as the bearer of a message for you," Harold Wainwright replied, as he opened the pew door for her.

"For me! From whom?" asked Florence in astonishment.

"If I may walk home with you I will tell you; otherwise you must wait."

"You are very dictatorial," she replied, "but when a woman's curiosity is aroused, she is easily managed. If father will drive home alone, I consent to your terms. Father," she continued, turning around and interrupting a conversation which Judge Moreland was holding with an elder, "here is Harold Wainwright."

"Glad to see you, Harold," said the Judge, taking Wainwright's hand and giving it the hearty shake of unaffected cordiality. "Glad to see the son of the best friend I ever had. You must bring your grip up to the house. What brought you to Fairville?"

Harold was about to reply to these numerous and disconnected remarks, but he was interrupted by Florence. "Harold brings news I must hear; he won't tell me unless I promise to let him walk home with me. Do you mind, father?"

"Certainly not. I'll take Elder Jones home—if I can persuade him to ride on Sunday," the Judge added in a whisper.

"Very well, then. Good-by, father," said Florence, moving toward the door.

"Good-by, children. It's a hot day, so don't hurry. If you want to stop under the willows to rest, I sha'n't mind, and I'll wait lunch for you. Don't forget to move up to the house, Harold."

"Thank you, Judge," said Harold, "but as I leave in the morning, I don't believe I had better bother you."

"Nonsense, my boy," called the Judge. "I'll send down for your traps this afternoon."

When Florence and Harold reached the street, the congregation had mostly dispersed. Instead of following the villagers along under the shady elms into the heart of the village, they turned to the left, and tramped in the hot sun toward the shore of the little lake which lay at the end of the town. Judge Moreland's place was on the opposite bank, and although the grey tower on the north wing of the house, rising above the surrounding oak trees, seemed quite near, they were obliged to follow the road for a mile and a half along the lake shore. About half way was a clump of willow trees growing by the water, under whose shade they had often stopped to rest. Florence and Harold both loved this little lake, sunk like a gem amid the rough setting of the mountain crags, and they both felt, instinctively, that they did not care to talk much until they reached their old haunt under the willows. Even Florence forgot her curiosity, and as she walked beside Harold over the road they had so often tramped together, she seemed to forget that he had been away, and that at their last meeting in distant Chicago so much that was unpleasant had occurred. Here in the New Hampshire mountains all seemed so different; she felt freed from the tainted atmosphere of the city which had made her restless and uncertain in mind. Florence had not forgotten her last words with Harold in Chicago; indeed she had thought of them over and over again, during the long months that had passed since that interview; the unpleasant episode at the Renaissance Club was also seldom absent from her mind; but to-day it all seemed to have faded quietly from her heart. Harold had come into church so silently, and it seemed so natural to be walking by his side, that she was carried back to the years before she went to Europe, when, still a child, she used to romp and play with him over these same New Hampshire hills.

They reached the willows, and Florence sat down on the green turf and leaned her back against a tree. She took off her hat and let the breeze cool her temples, while Harold, stretched out on the bank beside her, lay for a while resting upon his elbow, and carelessly watching the pebbles, he threw from time to time, skip lightly from ripple to ripple and finally sink from sight. The sunlight danced on the gently ruffled surface of the water; in the distance the bold side of a mountain rose abruptly above the lake, its rough outlines standing out sharply in relief against the clear blue of the sky; and the little white farmhouses, perched here and there high up on its slopes, glistened in the sunshine.

They sat there enjoying the scene, until Florence seemed to awaken, as from a pleasant dream, and feel all her troubled thoughts come rudely back to her. She remembered that Harold had come from the distant city in the West and had not yet told her the meaning of his unexpected visit. "We must not dream on forever, Harold," she said, as he lazily sent another pebble skipping from wave to wave; "you have not yet told me the nature of the message you have brought."

Harold slightly shifted his position and, resting his head on his hand, looked up into her face with a surprised expression, as though he, too, had forgotten the present and was startled at being called back to it. "I brought a command for you to return to Chicago," he said, smiling.

"A command from whom?" she asked in astonishment.

"Here it is," he answered, reaching into his pocket and producing a letter which he handed to Florence.

It was addressed in Marion Sanderson's hand. Florence hastily broke the seal and read as follows:

"Dearest Florence:—

"I have never forgiven you for your sudden flight last winter, and the offense is of such long standing that I summon you to appear in Chicago before Derby Day to answer a charge of infidelity to me. You will be imprisoned here for at least one month,—longer if possible,—and I charge Mr. Wainwright with the execution of this warrant. In other words, dearest girl, I cannot live any longer without seeing you, and must have you here for a visit. Pack up and come immediately, as the Derby is a great 'function' here, and is run on the twenty-first of June.

"With a world of love,
"I am, your devoted
"Marion."

"Did you come all the way from Chicago to bring me this?" Florence asked, after she had finished the letter.

Harold was sitting up now, and looking into her face he said quietly: "I came to tell you again that I love you."

Florence felt a sudden emotion thrill her heart, but a doubtful expression came into her eyes as she glanced down and said slowly: "You forget what happened the day before I left Chicago."

Harold smiled. He took her hand and held it firmly between his own. "I remember that you are the bravest girl in the world," he said, "and that, to save a friend, you accused yourself."

"You don't know that," said Florence anxiously.

"I know that nothing could make me believe you did wrong, for you are incapable of it." Then he added earnestly: "I know, too, that I love you better than my life."

Florence looked up into his face and he must have read her answer in those gentle, brown eyes, for, without waiting for her to speak, he drew her to his side and kissed her on both cheeks. "I love you, I love you," he repeated, as he held her tightly in his strong arms; "but I must hear love spoken by those dear lips."

"I love you, Harold," she said, and the words made his heart leap with happiness.

"Then why were you so cruel to me last winter?" he asked reproachfully.

"I did not know it then," she answered. "It was not until I left the smoky city and came away into the free country air that I knew I cared for you, Harold, dear."

"I wondered you cared for me at all," he replied laughingly. "We had been friends so long that it was strange for me to speak of love."

"Yes; I always believed that love was some giant who crushes one by his mighty power," she said, "and I found he was a little rascal who stole into my heart before I knew he was anywhere about. But, O, Harold, I am so happy now."

She rested her head on his shoulder and looked up into his face again. He kissed her, and, as he did so, the wind caught Marion Sanderson's note lying in her lap, and carried it out onto the lake, where, resting on the water, it sailed slowly away toward the western shore. Harold saw it and asked what message it bore from her to Marion.

"I had forgotten the note," she answered. "It makes me think of that woman and the danger poor Marion was in. I had better not go to Chicago," she said, after a moment's thought.

"Why not, sweet one?" asked Harold.

"Because of that woman. She would say such things about me."

Harold smiled. "Don't you think they would have been said long ago, if she had intended saying them?" he asked.

"Perhaps she did say them, though I have heard nothing, and one usually hears the unpleasant things that are said of one."

"I know you have heard nothing, dear," he replied, "and I know you never will."

"You forget what I admitted to her, and you don't know what a spiteful woman is capable of."

"I know Mrs. McSeeney," he said.

"And you think that she can be trusted? I am surprised at you, Harold."

"I think she is the last woman in the world I would trust," he replied.

"Then what do you mean?" she asked.

"Mrs. McSeeney and I are old acquaintances. I think I can answer for her."

"You speak in enigmas, Harold, and you ought not to keep any secrets from me, you know."

"I don't think you had better ask to know more," he said laughingly.

"But I do," she answered.

"Then I obey. Mrs. McSeeney and I were at Bar Harbor the same summer. I got to know her very well, perhaps better than she liked."

"Well, what has that to do with the affair in Chicago?" Florence asked impatiently.

"Nothing much except that Mrs. McSeeney thinks it would be wise never to mention it."

"Why?"

"I can't tell you. It is a secret between Mrs. McSeeney and myself."

"Harold Wainwright," she said, in a tone of authority that startled him, "I forbid you to have any secrets from me."

"Well," replied Harold, "if you command me to tell more, I must admit that Mrs. McSeeney and I had a confidential talk directly after it happened, and I persuaded her that she had better not mention the matter again."

"You persuaded her? How ridiculous! You must have threatened her with something. What was it?"

"I merely asked her if she remembered a certain evening at Bar Harbor when there was a fÊte at the Canoe Club."

"Well, what of it? I don't see anything unusual in that."

"I can't tell you more; only when I reminded her of that evening she acknowledged that it would be discreet for her to remain silent concerning you and Marion Sanderson. You see I happened accidentally to observe some of Mrs. McSeeney's actions on that occasion, and, considering that you were in her power, I felt justified in informing her of the fact."

"Then it was you who saved Marion and me from her spiteful tongue," said Florence in a relieved tone. "You don't know how grateful I am, and how I have worried over that matter."

"You need worry no longer, my girl," replied Harold. "But I must tell you again how plucky you were to try to save your friend in the way you did, and now let's forget all about it."

"Yes, dear," said Florence fondly. "We have pleasanter things to think of."

"'Tis true, my darling," he replied, taking both of her hands in his. "To-day you have made me the happiest man in the world. Do you know why I love you?"

"No; why?"

"Because you have so much common sense."

Florence smiled. "I never showed it until I began to love you," she replied; "but what time do you suppose it is? Just think of poor papa waiting all this time."

"Only to find he has lost his best possession," answered Harold.

Judge Moreland was sitting in the library when they reached the house, and although he had been waiting patiently for nearly an hour since the servant had announced luncheon, he did not seem ill-humored, for, on seeing the delinquents enter, he smiled good-humoredly, and shook his head with mock disapproval, as he said: "Three-quarters of an hour late, children. That is more than I bargained for, but you will be punished. The luncheon is cold and you will be compelled to eat it without grumbling."

Harold took Florence's hand and they both stood before the Judge; then Harold said penitently: "The fault is mine, sir, but I have a greater sin to answer for. I have robbed you of your daughter, and I come to ask your clemency."

"I think I understand," answered the Judge. "Yours is a very grave offense, and the only way you can obtain pardon is by seeking benefit of clergy. Florence, my girl, come here and let me kiss you. You have made me very happy."

"Happy," echoed Florence, "I feared you would never forgive me."

"Not forgive you for loving the son of Judge Wainwright? He was my best friend and his son will make my daughter the best husband in the world. Give me your hand, Harold," he continued, after he had kissed Florence affectionately, "you are your father's own boy."

"That is the best compliment you could pay me," answered Harold.

"I know it is, and you know I mean it when I say I expect to see you on the federal bench yourself some day."

"Luncheon is getting cold, sir," said the old family butler, coming into the room and looking far from amiable.

"Let it wait, Thomas," said the Judge, "until you can get a bottle of champagne up from the cellar. We have some healths to drink to-day, haven't we, children?"

That evening the little church was lighted up for evening service, and again the rustling of fans ceased, and heads were turned around as Florence and Harold took their seats. But Harold's eyes were no longer directed toward the pew in front of him, and the doctor's daughter remarked that the two people in front of her stood unnecessarily close to each other during the hymns, while the postmaster's wife made up her mind that people who "smirk and look so silly durin' meetin' must be sparkin'." In fact the homely folk of Fairville were not slow of perception; many were the gossiping heads put together that night, and it was a curious coincidence that there was no dissenting voice in regard to the probability of a certain event having taken place that afternoon.

Going home that night, Florence and Harold walked with the tarrying step of lovers, but the Judge was not waiting luncheon, and, as the evening was warm and bright, they rested again under the willows, watching the moonlight play on the ripples of the lake. They were planning for the future, and many were the rosy tinted castles reared in that soft night air under the shade of the trees they loved so well. The moon shone kindly over the mountain top at the farther end of the lake, and the waves plashed softly on the pebbles at their feet, as Florence sat there with her head resting on Harold's shoulder, dreaming the sweetest dream of life.