IT was Sunday morning, and all the family except Lora and her mother had gone to church. As a rule they, or at least Lora, were the first to be tucked into the sleigh; but on this particular morning Mrs. Wheeler had said she was not going; that she had a little cold, she believed, and was “all tuckered out” with the week’s work, and just in condition to get more cold very easily; and Lora’s coat did look too ridiculous to wear to church, so she had better stay at home with her.

“By next Sunday you will have your new coat,” she said, to console the child, “and be all in order for church for the rest of the winter.”

Lora looked sober for a few minutes; she was very fond of riding to church tucked in among the great soft robes, and she did not mind the service so very much, though the sermon was pretty long. However, she was naturally a sunny little girl, and her face soon cleared as she buttoned her somewhat shabby coat, and went out to watch the snowbirds, who were gathering in great numbers near the barn doors.

Lora and the snowbirds were friends; indeed she made friends with all sorts of dumb animals, and had queer little ideas about them.

“You will fall,” she said gravely, addressing a fat bird who swung on a tiny branch almost at her side; “you have picked out a very slimsy branch; it looks as though it was almost broked off; maybe it will break while you are swinging on it—I most know it will—then you will fall down in the snow and hurt yourself. I falled off of a limb once, and it hurted.”

The bird paid not the slightest attention to this friendly warning, but Lora continued to stand still, looking at the swaying bush, her face full of earnest thought. She had already turned from the bird, and was thinking about the verse sister Nannie had taught her that morning. It was a long verse for a little girl, with some hard words in it; but Lora had mastered them, and said them over in her mind, revolving, meanwhile, the explanation which Nannie had made of them. “If a man abide not in me he is cast forth as a branch, and is withered.” “Branches do wivver as soon as they are broked off,” said Lora. “I’ve seen them; and papa and Moses burn them up—that is what it said.

“This stick is broked off,” she continued, carefully examining the one which she grasped with both chubby hands; “it used to grow, but it won’t ever any more. All the leaves have wivvered off it, and some day it will get burned up, I s’pose; it isn’t good for much.”

Words stopped just here, but that little Lora’s brain went on with the great thoughts which she could not express, was evident from the look on her face. The Bible verse and Nannie’s careful explanation of it had taken deep root in her heart. She went into the house presently; the thoughts had grown so large that she felt as though she must ask some more questions.

As a usual thing, Sunday quiet reigned in Mrs. Wheeler’s kitchen at this hour of the day. But this day was an exception. Mrs. Wheeler, bustling about doing up the last things connected with the morning work, had come across a bowl of mince meat and a lump of dough evidently left from pie crust. “I declare for it!” she exclaimed, “I thought Kate made up all the pies yesterday. What a careless thing, to leave this bowl of mince meat here over Sunday! It would make two good pies, and if all the folks come for Thanksgiving we may fall short; they set such store by my pies. I wonder what Kate was about? It must have got dark before she finished. These must be made up the first thing to-morrow—but there is pretty near everything to do to-morrow, too; it makes a great deal of work getting ready for such a house full; and pie crust is none the better for standing, either; I declare, I’ve a mind to slap this on to a couple of tins and set them in the oven; there is fire enough to bake them nicely, and it won’t take five minutes, hardly, and there are so many ways to turn to-morrow.”

There were more thoughts about it not put into words, but it ended in the moulding board being spread out on the table, and the flour jar and rolling-pin and pastry knife being laid beside it. I wonder they did not all blush for shame, for such a thing had never happened to them before on a Sabbath. Mrs. Wheeler’s cheeks were rather red, and she felt what she would have called “kind of queer”; but she flew about very fast, and meant to be soon seated in the best room in her Sunday dress.

It was just at that moment that Lora pushed open the kitchen door and entered, her eyes large with the thoughts about which she wanted to question. They grew larger as she took in the situation. Her mother rolling out pie crust! And it was Sunday! Such a thing had never happened in Lora’s experience. Nobody knows why the queer little brain put together the thoughts which had come to her outside, and the pie crust in the kitchen; but it did, and there came, presently, this question: “Did you get broked off, muvver?”

“Did I what?” said Mrs. Wheeler, her cheeks very red. There was something in Lora’s look and tone which made them redder.

“Get broked off. That is what Nannie said. She said folks that got broked off did things that Jesus did not want done; and kept doing them. Does he want you to make pies to-day, muvver?”

“If I ever saw such a child!” said Mrs. Wheeler, making the rolling-pin revolve over the board at railroad speed. “What does Nannie mean putting such notions into your head? Go into the other room, child, and take off your coat; I’ll be there in a few minutes. I’m not going to make pies; I shall wad up this dough and keep it until to-morrow.”

And she did.

Myra Spafford.