It was Wednesday, and the morning was as bright and beautiful as the flower for which the new club had been named.

Across the road from Mr. Flint's church stood the dingy white parsonage, its windows glistening in the morning sunlight. It was there, and on this particular morning, that the second meeting of the "Glories" was to be held.

Mrs. Flint, with the apprehensiveness of a neat housekeeper, was trotting from one room to another, replacing a chair here, raising or lowering a curtain a fraction of an inch there, and now and then wiping away an imaginary spot of dust.

Will Flint was looking out one of the sitting-room windows, and rocking nervously with one leg thrown over the arm of his chair. He wanted to smoke and read, but smoking was not to be thought of in the parsonage.

"What's going to happen, mother?" he asked, as she came into the sitting-room in search of disorder and dust.

"Our club is to meet here this morning," Mrs. Flint replied, proudly.

"Guess I'll go for a walk," said Will, as he got up, stretched his arms, and yawned.

"I had hoped," sighed Mrs. Flint, regretfully, "that you would stay at home and meet the ladies."

"No, thank you, mother, I guess I'll be safer out-of-doors," he replied, with a laugh.

"Will," said Mrs. Flint, reprovingly.

"I beg your pardon, mother dear, I'm sorry to disappoint you, but—a houseful of women, it's impossible!"

Mrs. Flint suppressed another sigh. Since her son's return from college she could not accustom herself to his ways. She wanted to say, "Willie, be sure and return in time for dinner," but she realized that the boy had become a man, and remained silent.

"I'll be home in time for supper," said Will, as he took his hat and started for the door, then added, "Good luck, mother," and went out.

Mrs. Flint watched from the window, as he walked down the path and up the road, until he disappeared. She was about to turn away from the window when Mrs. Stout waddled into view, stopped in front of the parsonage, hailed Alick Purbeck, who was driving by, and the following conversation, which Mrs. Flint and all of her neighbours could hear, took place.

"How's your folks, Alick?" asked Mrs. Stout.

"Children ain't well."

"Too bad, what doctor've you got?"

"Jones."

"He don't know nothin'."

"He did my wife a lot of good."

"He don't understand children."

"Well, I've had him twice, and—"

"Take my advice and get another."

"I'll see."

"Has Sam Billin's been tellin' you any more trash about the woman's club?"

"Not a word. Get-ap."

The grocer's wagon rattled off down the street, and Mrs. Stout went to the door and rang the bell. Mrs. Flint was disgusted, but succeeded in concealing her feelings, and greeted Mrs. Stout smilingly.

"You are punctual, Mrs. Stout," she said.

"Yes," puffed Mrs. Stout, "I always make it a point to be on time; it pays and don't cost anything."

"Yes, come right in, punctuality is indeed a virtue, but one that is unappreciated by those who do not possess it."

"I declare," said Mrs. Stout, as she plumped into a chair, "I do believe I'm gettin' wheezy in my old age, just that little walk from my house has tuckered me out. How's the club gettin' along?"

"Splendidly, over twenty ladies have signified their intention to be present this morning. The committee on rules has completed its work—oh, by the way, you were on that committee, Mrs. Stout. Did you get my postal in regard to the meeting?"

"Yes, but I couldn't come. I'll agree to what you and Miss Sawyer have done, though."

"Very good of you, I'm sure."

"But you can't make women live by rule, any more'n you can mix cats and dogs without there bein' some fightin'." This remark wounded Mrs. Flint's cultured feelings, but before there was time to think of a fitting reply, Mrs. Stout, who was looking out of a window, exclaimed:

"Here's Miss Sawyer! and if she ain't walkin' with that gossipy old bach', Sam Billin's. I thought she was awful perticler about the company she kept."

"I dare say their meeting was purely casual," observed Mrs. Flint.

"Most prob'ly," said Mrs. Stout, "but you know how folks will talk."

Mrs. Flint did know, furthermore, she thought, that some folks talked more than others. Their conversation came to an end upon the entrance of Miss Sawyer, and the arrival of several other ladies in rapid succession. Among them was Mrs. Tweedie, who had Mrs. Doctor Jones in tow. Mrs. Jones was a meek little woman with a mind as changeable as a weather-vane, but she was a patient, willing worker, one of the sort always to be found washing dishes after a supper at the church long after her more brilliant sisters had gone home. Mrs. Tweedie always made friends of such women; they were useful, and seldom caused trouble. Another of the new members was Mrs. Deacon Walton, who lived on the edge of the town—"in the country," some of the village ladies said. Mrs. Walton was not sure that membership in a woman's club would be pleasing, proper, or profitable, but was willing to try it.

The ladies were all well acquainted, and immediately began talking in a delightfully happy manner. As the number increased, so did the chatter, which soon resembled the sounds of a bird store. Mrs. Tweedie, for a long time silent and thoughtful, gazed upon the gathering with pride. Success such as she had never dreamed of was within her grasp. Every woman who had been invited to come was present—wives of the butcher, the baker, and the candlestick maker, all were there, and at the signal for silence stopped talking and looked expectantly at their leader. Mrs. Tweedie looked over the assemblage gravely and leisurely before beginning to speak.

"Ladies of The Morning Glory Club," she began, "the founders of our organization would be indeed ungrateful if they did not appreciate the generous response to their appeal by so many of the first ladies of our town. We thank you, and, I must add, hope that you will concur with us in what has been done at a previous meeting. The records of the last meeting will be read by our secretary."

Miss Sawyer timidly complied with the president's request, reading from a neatly written manuscript of daintily tinted and perfumed notepaper, the sheets of which were fastened together by a pale green ribbon. When Miss Sawyer had finished, the committee on rules presented their report in the form of a constitution and by-laws, which were accepted without debate. Then Mrs. Tweedie suggested that committees on ethics, art, literature, and the Lord knows what, be appointed. It was done. Everything that Mrs. Tweedie desired came to pass. She was in the clouds; never, even in her dreams, had she thought such power possible.

For an hour the meeting progressed, and during that time Mrs. Stout, for some unfathomable reason, remained silent. When she did rise to speak, she addressed the chair in such a perfectly proper manner that, for a moment, the ladies thought that by some strange process she had become civilized.

"Ladies," she said, "I'm treasurer of this club, and I've been doin' a lot of thinkin' since our last meetin'. We've got to have some money, and it'll take for ever and a day for dues at ten cents a month to amount to anything. We've got to run some kind of a show to raise money. This ethical and e-comical business is all right, but what we want now is dollars!"

"A very good suggestion," replied Mrs. Tweedie, who was feeling amiable enough at that moment even to agree with one whom she disliked. The ladies murmured their approval. "The chair awaits suggestions," continued Mrs. Tweedie. Upon that they, the suggestions, came like an avalanche—everything was proposed from a spelling-match to military whist. But Mrs. Tweedie frowned upon them all; only something new to Manville would suit her. She desired above all things to get as far away as possible from the provincial ways of the town.

"Whatever we give will cost something," remarked Mrs. Darling.

"We can't spend any money if we haven't got any," squeaked the deacon's wife.

"Assuredly not," replied Mrs. Tweedie. "The question is—"

"Why not settle this money business first," interrupted Mrs. Stout. "Mis' Darling says we've got to spend money whatever we do. I say we ain't, what we've got to buy we can get trusted for—everybody else does."

"Very true," said Mrs. Doctor Jones, warmly, "they do, and sometimes for a long time." The wives of the butcher, the baker, and the candlestick maker looked as though they would like to say "amen." Others moved uneasily, until Mrs. Tweedie came to the rescue.

"The question is," she said, firmly, "what sort of an entertainment shall be given, not how we are to pay for it."

"Madam President," some one said from a corner.

"Mrs.—er—" Mrs. Tweedie craned her neck to see who had spoken. "Oh, Mrs. Thornton."

"What would the ladies say to theatricals?" asked the woman with a baby.

"Good!" exclaimed Fanny Tweedie. "A play, the very thing, what a sweet idea."

"Fanny," said her mother, reprovingly, yet she liked the idea herself.

"A play!" gasped Mrs. Flint, in dismay.

"I am inclined to think favourably of the idea," replied Mrs. Tweedie, turning to the parson's wife.

"But the Church, Mrs. Tweedie, have you forgotten what we owe to our creed?" asked Mrs. Flint, anxiously.

"Oh, no, indeed," said Mrs. Tweedie, with a benevolent smile, "but the barriers between the stage and the Church are not so high as they were."

"They ain't so high," added Mrs. Stout, "but what most folks can peek over if they stand on tiptoes, and their minister ain't lookin'."

Mrs. Flint felt certain that the end of all things was at hand.

"I'm sure," she said, "I have no idea what Mr. Flint will say."

"What difference would it make?" Mrs. Stout asked, bluntly. This remark was followed by the most embarrassing, painful silence in the history of the club.

When business was resumed, it was voted that a committee of five be appointed to select a play, and plan for its production.

The Reverend and Mrs. Flint had a long talk that night.

"And the unholy suggestion was made and adopted in my home!" thundered the reverend, forgetting that his audience consisted of only one.

Manville was waking up.