On the Sunday morning following the Morning Glory Club's entertainment, the Rev. Elijah Flint arose after a restless night feeling physically miserable; but thoughts of the mighty effort that he was to make that day caused him soon to forget his bodily condition. Mrs. Flint had gone out of town the day before to visit friends. The minister was alone in the parsonage—alone with a narrow, stubborn idea. After a meagre breakfast of his own getting, he started early for church, eager and impatient for the service to begin.

A rumour had spread about town that Mr. Flint was to depart from his usual custom on that day and preach an up-to-date sermon. Everybody knew what that meant, and everybody—almost—went to church. When Mr. Flint went into the pulpit, and turned the leaves of the large Bible in search of the morning lesson, he glanced over the large congregation with the keenest satisfaction. It never occurred to him that the addition to his small flock was made up of victims of morbid curiosity. The idea crept into his mind that his opposition to a recent "ungodly performance" had brought favour to him and his church, which before had been denied them. At last, he thought, after years of unrewarded, unappreciated labour, the tide has turned. Poor fool; if "narrowness" and "curiosity" had been painted all over his church in letters as tall as himself, God could not have grieved more.

When Mr. Flint arose to deliver his sermon the stillness of a tomb fell over devout and curious alike, and was preserved to the end. The sermon was a general denunciation of the stage, professional and amateur, the latter being especially stigmatized. And in reference to a recent local performance, and the enormity of the sin of an unnamed young woman who wore in public an undescribed costume, the preacher was unscathingly bitter and quoted these words: "As a jewel of gold in a swine's snout, so is a fair woman which is without discretion." Thus, for an hour, the man raved like one insane, and during that time many of his hearers became infected with the same malady. They believed every idea that was hurled at them, swallowed words whole without tasting to discover whether they were sweet or poison. The accuser's vehemence surprised some and grieved others, but none of the curious were disappointed.

Barbara sat at one of Mrs. Stout's front windows, thoughtful and silent, as she watched the people going home from church. Without, the sun was shining brightly; within, the leaden cloud still hung over her and grew darker without her knowing it. The last cruel blow could not be anticipated.

Mrs. Stout had been motherly kindness itself. She had tried in every way to lessen the sting of the outrage—to make Barbara forget; but the rough, good-hearted woman failed, though her efforts were gratefully appreciated. She had urged Barbara to go home, well knowing that Manville must be unbearable, but Barbara was waiting for Will. He had telegraphed that he would come as soon as possible, but two days had gone by since then. Oh, how she longed to see him! He was the only one who could comfort and help, and though she did not know how that even he could silence the mischievous and careless tongues, she had faith to believe that he would.

Have I done wrong? She asked herself a thousand times, and each time the answer was "no." Would Will think that she had sinned? The thought was torture, but Love and Faith answered the question for her.

Late that afternoon Fanny Tweedie called, and a few minutes afterward Mrs. Stout excused herself, and went out wearing a sterner and more determined look than her usually jovial countenance was accustomed to. Fanny and Barbara talked girl-fashion for an hour. There was some laughter, and many tears, but both felt better for it, and the seal of their friendship was made secure. Fanny had brought a verbal message from her father that pleased Barbara, and cheered her greatly. Poor Ezra, he had been fond of her always, and now that she was in such dire need of friends he longed to help her, but Mrs. T. stood between him and everything—a human, female barrier.

"Is he coming?" Fanny asked, after a long pause in the conversation.

"Will?"

"Yes, of course, there's no other he, is there?"

"I have written him to come," Barbara replied.

"Does he know what has—happened?" said Fanny. Barbara shook her head. Will did not know exactly what had happened, but he was sure that something had gone wrong, and at that moment was speeding toward her in response to her tear-stained appeal. "Well," continued Fanny, "I'm sorry for some folks when he does find out."

Mrs. Stout would not go to Mr. Flint's church out of curiosity, or for any other reason, but she had heard a true report of that morning's sermon, and was filled to the bursting point with anger. She thought it best to keep the news from Barbara, however, and cautioned Fanny not to mention it. But a vent for her feelings she must find, and it was for that purpose that she had gone out. She had no definite plan in mind, but almost unconsciously walked toward the parsonage. Upon reaching the gate she stopped. The house was dark. How she hated it, and the man who lived there. Sometime, possibly, she might forgive the women who had refused to shelter Barbara, and perhaps the school committee, but the minister who had denounced her in the house of God she could never forgive. With such thoughts in her mind Mrs. Stout went up the path to the door and rang the bell vigorously. It seemed a long time before the door was finally opened by Mr. Flint, who held the lamp high in order that he could better see his visitor. Mrs. Stout noticed that his face was flushed, and that his eyes were unnaturally bright.

"Good evenin', Mr. Flint," she said, coldly.

"Oh, it is Mrs. Stout?" he replied when he heard her voice.

"Yes."

"Won't you come in?"

"No, thanks, I can say what I've got to right here."

Mr. Flint placed the lamp on a table. His hand trembled, and as he turned he staggered, but caught and steadied himself by grasping the door-knob.

"I've come," Mrs. Stout began, "to say somethin' that won't do any good, prob'ly, but I want to be sure that you don't think that everybody in Manville has got the same ideas as you about some things in pertic'ler."

"I have never entertained that idea," replied the parson.

"Perhaps not, but you might have." Mrs. Stout hesitated for a moment, and then her anger broke forth. "Mr. Flint, you made a big mistake this mornin'. You said everything that you could say to spoil the good name of one of the best women that ever lived. She never did you, or anybody else, any harm, but you and all the rest seem bound to drive her away with as black a name as you can give her. The women folks wa'n't satisfied with kickin' her out of their houses, they must get the school committee to discharge her. And then you, a man that is s'posed to show folks how to live right, and believe in God, spend a whole Sunday mornin' runnin' her down." Mrs. Stout stopped because she was out of breath.

"My dear Mrs. Stout," the parson replied, "it is not the woman that I am opposed to, but the principles involved and violated, the morals offended and endangered. Those susceptible to corruption who—"

"Corruption!" snapped Mrs. Stout. "Do you mean to say that she could corrupt anybody in any costume?"

"Well—er—the—er—minds of the young—"

"The young, yes; but how about all those women, most of 'em belonged to your church too, that wore such corruption clothes when they all had bicycles, and the fever was at its worst?"

"Exercise, Mrs. Stout, excuses—"

"Exercise fiddlesticks! You've got the wrong idea, Mr. Flint, and for that reason I s'pose you've done more'n anybody else to disgrace a good woman—the one that your son cares more about than—"

"Stop!" cried the parson, feebly, as he raised his hand protestingly.

"I will stop, because I ain't sure about that. But I must say this much, that I hope you'll live long enough to repent, though from what I've heard, and know about you, you'll have to live to be a hundred. Good night." Mrs. Stout turned as abruptly as she had spoken, walked down the path and up the road toward the home of Mr. George, the chairman of the school committee. Mr. Flint closed the door, returned to his study, and sank wearily into a chair. Sick though he was, Mrs. Stout had made him realize that there was another side to the question, and he asked himself repeatedly, as Barbara had been doing, have I done wrong? And the answer was the same. No; he had performed his duty as he saw it—man can do no more than that and serve God. But the view-point, there is always more than one, and then his mind wandered to the women on the bicycles.

Mr. George was at home when Mrs. Stout called, and was delighted to see her. He asked her to come in, and she accepted the invitation. She afterward explained, when relating the story to Peter, that "I wouldn't have gone in only I had so much to say, and Mr. George is so bald I didn't want him to catch cold and die, and then be called a murderer by his wife."

"Rather unusual to see you on a Sunday evening," said Mr. George, cheerfully, when Mrs. Stout was comfortably seated.

"It's an unusual case," she replied, stiffly.

Mr. George raised his eyebrows, and then frowned.

"Indeed," he replied, a little perplexed.

"Don't you think that the school committee was in an awful big hurry about dischargin' Miss Wallace?" asked Mrs. Stout, coming to the point at once.

"Hem—er—I don't know—I—"

"Well, if you don't, who does?"

"Oh,—er—well, of course I understand the case, if that is what you mean. I assure you that it was gone over very thoroughly."

"There ain't any doubt about that," replied Mrs. Stout, with sarcasm. "It's been gone over too thoroughly by everybody. Now what I want to know is, if Miss Wallace tried to get another place somewhere else she'd have to tell where she'd been before, wouldn't she?"

"Yes."

"And they'd write to you, wouldn't they, about what kind of a woman she was, and so forth?"

"It is customary."

"And you'd write back, and tell 'em exactly how she happened to leave Manville, wouldn't you?"

"I should consider it my duty to state the truth." Mr. George was getting uneasy.

"And she wouldn't get the place."

"Hem—probably not."

"Pretty hard for a woman that's got to earn a livin'. It ain't too late for the school committee to take back what it's done, is it?" Mrs. Stout continued earnestly.

"No; but—"

"You won't do it. Now I'm comin' to what I've got to say. You discharged Miss Wallace without any good reason. You—"

"Mrs. Stout, I protest," interrupted Mr. George. "There was a reason, and you know it as well as I do. Her costume at your club's entertainment was—"

"Be careful," warned Mrs. Stout.

"It is my custom," replied the committeeman, testily, "to speak with caution of one woman to—another woman."

"If you'd be as considerate when talkin' to men about one woman in pertic'ler there wouldn't have been any need of my comin' here to-night."

"Yes—hem—well, as I was about to say, she was—er—indiscreet," stammered Mr. George.

"That's what they all say," said Mrs. Stout, scornfully. "I s'pose it would have been all right if she'd worn a bathin'-suit. If Miss Wallace was indiscreet, what would you call your two girls when they went in bathin' down to Horse Shoe Beach last summer at the Sunday-school picnic before half the folks in Manville? Miss Wallace's costume wa'n't half as indiscreet as a wet bathin' suit is."

"Custom, Mrs. Stout, excuses many things," replied Mr. George, his face very red.

"Custom is often a mean excuse for not doin' right," retorted Mrs. Stout. "Because it's been the custom since the year one for men to get drunk, and women's tongues to wag about other folkses business, does that make it right?"

Mr. George was silenced—completely out of action, and sat staring at his inquisitor, wondering what would come next.

"Mr. George," Mrs. Stout continued, "I'm goin' into politics next fall. The law of this State only lets a woman vote for school committee, but in this case that's enough. That's all I've got to say, I guess, just now. If you should make up your mind to take Miss Wallace back I wish you'd let me know." With a glance of contempt at the man before her, Mrs. Stout left her chair, and started for the door. Mr. George followed, mechanically opened the door, and when she had gone out, closed it softly.

Mrs. Stout felt relieved, but not satisfied, after the two calls that she had made, and as she walked slowly homeward, planned the campaign that was to defeat Mr. George and his colleagues at the next election. But her dreams of political victory were quickly dispelled when she reached home. Barbara and Fanny were in tears.

"Well, well, what's happened now?" she asked.

"I—I told her about the sermon," sobbed Fanny. "But I didn't intend to, really I didn't, Mrs. Stout."

"Well, she'd better hear it from her friends than somebody else," said Mrs. Stout, soothingly. "Secrets never do any good, anyway."

"I ought to know it," said Barbara. "Oh, what a wicked, wicked woman they think I am!" she moaned.

"But you're not, indeed you're not," cried Fanny as she impulsively threw her arms about Barbara and kissed her.

"There, there," said Mrs. Stout, "cryin' won't help—hark!" Some one ran up the steps, and set the door-bell to jingling furiously.

"Goodness! who can that be?" exclaimed Mrs. Stout, as she started for the door. Barbara sprang to her feet. Her hair was disarranged, her cheeks were wet with tears, there was a look of longing in her eyes, and on her lips trembled a smile.

"Why, Willie Flint!" they heard Mrs. Stout exclaim. Barbara did not move, but Fanny tiptoed from the room. There was a heavy step in the hall. At the sound Barbara took a step forward.

"Will, Will!" she cried, as he came into the room.

In a moment his arms were about her, and then some one closed the door softly.

"Did I do wrong, Will?" Barbara asked an hour later when she had finished the story of the past week, omitting only the miserable part that his father had played.

"No, Barbara," he replied, and she was satisfied. But Will was not satisfied. He had walked up from the station with some one who had told him of his father's sermon, not knowing that Barbara was more to him than an acquaintance.

"And father, what has he done?" he asked, gravely.

Barbara looked up quickly, started to reply, but Will continued before the words came.

"Do you know what he did to-day?"

"Yes," replied Barbara, faintly, "but—"

"And mother, have you seen her?" (What would she not have given to spare him that?) "Why did you not go to her?" Will was determined to know all.

"I—I did," Barbara faltered.

"When?"

"Will, dear, please don't ask me. I'm sure that she would have helped me if—"

"She refused to take you in?"

"Yes, but Will, don't judge them, please. I am sure that your father thought he was doing right and—"

"Yet he preaches of Christ."

"Will!"

"God seems to have forgotten Manville," he said, bitterly.

"No, Will, he is only showing us the way—and the others too."

"How can you say that, Barbara, when they've taken everything from you, position, name—"

"Everything but you, Will," she interposed, lovingly. It was growing late, the lamp was burning low and sputtering. Mrs. Stout knocked at the door, and to Will's response came into the room.

"Excuse me," she said, "but I forgot to fill that lamp to-day, and—"

"All right, Mrs. Stout," Will laughingly interrupted, "I understand, I'm going in a moment."

"'Deed you ain't goin' a step," replied Mrs. Stout, determinedly. "I've got a room all fixed for you, and I don't want to hear one identical word about not stayin'."

While Mrs. Stout went for another lamp, there was time for Barbara to give Will the answer that he had striven for—and won.