It was Sunday and Nan and Emily were sitting together on the vine-covered porch of the parsonage, trying to while away the long hour between church time and the midday dinner.

Nan gave a prodigious yawn, and stretched herself out in the comfortable steamer chair.

"Oh, dearie me," she sighed, "I wonder if it would be a crime for me to admit how bored I was in church this morning."

"Well, I don't think it would be in very good taste, considering your father preached," replied Emily severely.

"I can't help it if he did. I was tired, and moreover," crossly, "I am always bored."

Emily raised her eyebrows.

"I am afraid, Nan, your soul longs for Gregorian chants and tapering candles."

"Of course it does; and acolytes, incense, and embroidered altar cloths. Yes, I admit it frankly, I should have belonged to The Church," she ended, with great emphasis.

"I know, Em," she continued, after waiting a moment to observe the effect of her last words, "you will think it absurd; but, I tell you, I really envy the Lawrence girls. To think that they attend that dear, delightful Episcopal chapel, while I——" and the sentence ended with a laugh. "Why, Em, of course you won't sympathize with me, but I do think it is bad form."

Emily looked really shocked.

"Nan Birdsall, I am ashamed of you. What would uncle think of you?"

"Well," replied Nan, with a perverse expression on her face, "I don't intend that the ministers' sons shall have it all their own way. I have just as good a right to live up to the old saying as any of them."

Emily would not stay to listen to another word, and with a great air of dignity, she arose, and swept into the house. Very soon the soft tinkling of a bell told Nan that the noonday meal was ready. Old Mr. Birdsall stood at one end of the table, his hands folded on the back of the chair before him, waiting for Emily and Nan to appear. When they were come the long grace was spoken slowly and impressively, and no one watching Nan's demure face would have guessed at her outbreak of the morning.

They were a somewhat incongruous trio, and what little conversation there was consisted chiefly of good-natured banter of Emily by the irrepressible Nan, to which Mr. Birdsall listened somewhat abstractedly.

The dinner hour had not as yet assumed a position of importance to either of the girls, and as soon as possible they pushed back their chairs, and once more sought the shady porch. Emily gave one furtive glance over her shoulder to assure herself that her uncle was not following them, and then picked up a novel from a neighboring table, and opened it with a great show of interest. Nan watched the bit of deception, and a smile spread itself over her face.

"Puss," she cried, stooping to lift up a little white kitten which was brushing against her skirt, "it is now our turn to be shocked and horrified."

Her remark being received in contemptuous silence, for a while she played languidly with the little creature in her lap, then her hand dropped at her side, her head fell back against the cushions, and Nan was fast asleep. The air was heavy and drowsy, all about the insects hummed so lazily and the very atmosphere lulled one into forgetfulness. By and by, the crunching sound of footsteps on the graveled path roused Nan to sudden consciousness.

"Oh! dear, Nan," Emily was whispering in a tone of suppressed excitement, "please wake up. Here comes Mr. Dudley. I forgot to tell you that I was going for a walk with him."

"That's all right," Nan interrupted her sleepily. "I am going in so he won't see me," and lifting herself lazily from her chair, she slipped into the house through one of the French windows.

Within the house there reigned the solemn stillness of the Day of Rest. The door of the study stood part-way open, and Nan could see her father lying on his lounge, his white head shining like silver against the dark leather of the cushion. She stole in on tip-toe to avoid awakening him, caught up a bright-colored afghan and threw it over him.

"How sweet he looks," she thought with great tenderness, as she stooped and gently kissed him. She paused a moment by the large writing table to find, amid a litter of papers, an old hymnbook, shabby from long usage, and opening it marked the hymns selected for the evening service. Then she passed out and closed the door softly behind her. She waited a few moments until she heard Emily and Mr. Dudley leave the porch, then put on her hat, and started across the lawn to the manor. Coming out upon the drive-way she met Helen walking briskly along.

"Well," she cried, "where are you going?"

"To evening prayers, Nancy. Won't you come with me?"

"Yes, indeed I will. I thought you never left the children Sunday afternoon."

"I don't usually, but to-day I felt just in the humor for church."

There was a note of sadness in Helen's tone, which ordinarily Nan would have readily detected, but to-day the girl was possessed by a sense of personal dissatisfaction and restlessness, and so, absorbed in her own mood, this was lost upon her. There was a pause of brief duration, then Helen drew a long breath, and resumed more lightly:

"How sweet and sunny it is, isn't it, Nan? I love these first early days of summer when everything is so fresh and green. The country doesn't begin to look so lovely later in the season."

"I suppose so," returned Nan laconically. "I am such a country girl that I don't half see the beauties about me. When you are so used to things I don't think you are apt to be so keenly alive to them."

"I dare say that is true; you see I go away just enough to appreciate this dear place when I come back to it."

"While I," grumbled Nan, "have never been away from Hetherford but two or three times in my whole life. One year is just like another. There is always father, deeply interested in church matters, and looking upon me as an enigma; and cross old Bridget who runs the house and disapproves of me. I often long to dance a jig before father and to throw something at Bridget's head, just to relieve the monotony."

Helen laughed softly as Nan's grievances multiplied, knowing full well how it diminishes one's annoyances to be able to give voice to them.

"Then Emily comes," continued Nan, with a scowl, "and tells me that my clothes are awful and that I look like a fright, and wonders why I can't cultivate a slight interest in men. I tell her," laughing dubiously, "that I would if I found them eager to do their share."

"You silly child," and Helen squeezed Nan's arm affectionately. "I won't have you depreciate your dear self."

But Nan was not to be so easily diverted.

"I do hope that some day I shall see something of the world," she replied. "I would like to lead an exciting life, full of incident and adventure, and oh, dear me, who could lead one less so. I wish something new and interesting would happen."

"O Nancy," Helen said to her gravely, "don't be so anxious to have things happen. It is so much better when they don't, little girl."

Nan looked up at Helen and felt rebuked for her egotism, as she saw the shadow clouding her friend's pale face.

Dissimilar as these two girls were in character, a very warm friendship existed between them. Helen dearly loved Nan for her ready wit, easy-going ways, warm heart, and sunny nature, and Nan simply adored Helen, looking up to her with the greatest admiration, and deferring readily to her judgment in all things. There was a very romantic side to Nan's nature, hidden away though it was, beneath so much nonsense and jollity, and Helen's love affair and its sad ending had touched her keenly. She thoroughly liked Guy, and he, on his part, had always shown a preference for her above the other girls. Perhaps he had guessed at her strong love for Helen and partisanship for himself, for to her alone had he spoken of Helen on his return from that last unhappy interview. His words had been few, but Nan had seen the real grief in his honest eyes, and her heart had ached for him. She made a pretty shrewd guess at the real state of affairs, and she found her firm belief, that Helen's heart belonged to Guy and that it would all come out right in the end, greatly strengthened by her friend's present unhappiness and discontent. To-day she was full of sympathy for Helen, but she respected her reticence too deeply to broach the subject, so she consoled herself with the thought that this mood scored a point in Guy's favor. Her reverie was broken in upon by Helen's voice saying gently:

"I consider it a most fortunate thing, Nan, that I am carrying you off to church; I am sure the service will do us both good."

"Well, there's room for improvement in me," laughed Nan. "You should have seen Em's face this morning when I told her that my one ambition was to imitate the proverbial minister's son."

"Nancy, I am ashamed of you," Helen remonstrated, with a reluctant smile. "Come, be a good girl, for we are just at the church door. Let us give our hearts and minds to the service," she added with sweet gravity, "and we will see how much peace will come to us."

"I will, dear," Nan whispered as they started up the aisle to the Lawrences' pew.

The rector of St. Andrew's leaned somewhat toward ritualism, and no form nor observance that to his mind lent beauty and solemnity to the service was omitted. As the girls took their places the solemn chords of the Stabat Mater inclined their hearts to reverential prayer. In a moment more the doors of the vestry swung open and the organ took up the sweet strains of the soul-inspiring hymn, "Hark, hark, my soul." Slowly the choristers filed by; first the cross-bearer, his young face full of dignity, then the singers, two by two, and as their numbers swelled their fresh young voices filled the church.

The grace and beauty of the Episcopal form of worship appealed to Nan. The rhythmic lines of the confessional, "We have erred and strayed from Thy ways like lost sheep," etc., moved her to a heartfelt penitence for her shortcomings, and inspired her with an earnest desire to live more nobly and unselfishly. One by one her petty trials took their flight, and only a sense of great peace remained. When the benediction had been pronounced and the girls had left the church, they were both somewhat subdued and silent. The slanting rays of the sun fell softly athwart the quaint old churchyard, and on the faintly stirring breeze was borne the sweet perfume of roses and honeysuckle which grew in such profusion against the low stone wall. Passing through the gateway they strolled side by side along the road.

"I wish I could always attend St. Andrew's," mused Nan, slipping her hand within Helen's arm. "I really believe I would be a better girl. The ritual impresses me so deeply, and seems to bring religion home to me in such a convincing sort of way."

"I don't think that is at all unnatural; but as time goes on, Nan, I believe you will find that your love for outside things will diminish, in proportion as your dependence upon what is deep and vital grows."

"I would not fret about it in the least if it were not for my dear father," and Nan's face grew tender as she spoke, "but I know that this disposition of mine toward forms and symbols is a source of sorrow to him. He would have me a strong adherent to the old school of Presbyterianism, and he feels that my tendencies are leading me rapidly along the highway to Rome," and Nan's puzzled eyes met Helen's with a frank appeal for advice.

Helen was silent for a moment, and then spoke slowly and meditatively.

"Of course, Nan, each person has to decide such a question for himself, but it seems to me that when two people love each other dearly yet differ in their views, each should be willing to make some concessions and thus grow more generous and lenient with each other—Love is such a great power."

"Indeed it is," cried big-hearted Nan, "and I know that the larger share of yielding should be mine, for dear father has grown old in his opinions, and it must be very hard for him to have me branch out for myself."

They had reached a turn in the road where their paths diverged, and Nan asked:

"You will come over and sing hymns this evening, won't you, Helen?"

"Certainly. Are they coming over from the inn?"

"I suppose so," and then with a friendly nod each went on her way.

It was close upon eight o'clock that evening when Helen and Nathalie started out for the parsonage. The lovely twilight hour was almost over. High in the heavens rode the crescent moon, and, as the slowly fading daylight vanished, its white light penetrated the soft gloom which lay like a shroud over the manor park, and trees and lawns and winding paths came suddenly to life, as by the touch of a fairy wand. A sighing breeze stirred the leaves, from a fountain near at hand came the soft splash of falling waters and the night air vibrated gently with the myriad sounds of insect life.

There was a rush and a scamper, and around the corner of the house the children raced and threw themselves upon Helen, with a shout of delight.

"You naughty youngsters," chided their sister gently. "You ought to be in bed this minute, everyone of you."

"We's going right off," cried Gladys breathlessly. "On'y we wants to be kissed first."

Helen stooped down to fulfill their clamorous demand.

"Now, be off," she laughed, straightening herself up and shaking a mildly reproachful finger at them, "and don't forget to go in and say good-night to Auntie," and then she and Nathalie proceeded leisurely on their way.

They found the vine-covered porch of the parsonage quite overflowing with people. Wendell Churchill and Farr stepped hastily forward, and, after an interchange of cordial greetings, found seats for them.

"How late you are," called Nan, from somewhere in the background. "I thought you were not coming."

Helen left apologies and explanations to Nathalie, and turned to answer an inquiry from Farr in regard to Jean.

"I am sorry to say she is deep in a book," she said, looking up at him with a smile, "and we could not persuade her to leave it. However, she promised to follow us shortly."

"And does Miss Jean always keep her promises?" Farr asked lightly.

"I think she does," Helen rejoined, meeting his eyes for an instant.

"Come, Helen. Start some of the good old hymns."

At Mollie's suggestion Helen's clear soprano took up the refrain of "Lead, kindly light," and the others joined in heartily. From long practice their voices blended beautifully.

They had been singing for nearly an hour when Farr rose quietly to his feet.

"Miss Lawrence," he said, bending over her chair, "don't you think Miss Jean should be brought to a realizing sense of her delinquencies and coerced into making some reparation?"

"Indeed, I do," she assented with a frank laugh, "but what are we going to do about it?"

"I don't think my desertion would be noticed if I should go in search of her," Farr suggested, lowering his voice. "Do you?"

Helen gave him a swift glance of amusement.

"'I would not hear thine enemy say so.' But go and see what your persuasive powers can do."

"You have put me on my mettle now," he rejoined, as he stepped over the low railing and dropped noiselessly on to the grass below, and it was with a sense of amusement that he recognized his own impatience and eagerness as he set out for the manor.

He paused to light a cigarette, then strode on over the soft turf, revolving many and varied thoughts in his mind. The brightness died out of his eyes, and the lines of the mouth were stern and compressed, for to-night the past with its perplexities and disappointments rose vividly before him. In his thirty years of life fortune had dealt him some severe blows and had set him adrift with more doubts than beliefs, more cynicism than sentiment. His was a very reserved and sensitive temperament, and under the garb of laziness and indifference his troubles were jealously hidden from curious eyes. The man's best self lay dormant, and some influence was sorely needed to rouse him to the necessity of facing his difficulties and conquering them before they should conquer him.

He had left the hedge behind him, and, as he came out on the drive-way, a gleam of light from the manor house shot out through the trees and brightened his path. Involuntarily he started, and a vision of Jean Lawrence's face came between his mind and all painful memories and robbed them of their sting.

Reaching the veranda steps, he threw away his cigarette, mounted them and crossed to where the outer door stood hospitably open, revealing the wide hall within, its shadowy recesses softly penetrated by the light from a quaint lamp swung from the low, studded ceiling. He lifted the hand knocker, and let it fall, then pushing his hat back on his head, stared meditatively before him, while waiting for a response to his summons. Not a sound broke the stillness, and at length he took his hat in his hand and stepped across the threshold, and made his way to the entrance of the drawing-room, across which the portiÈres were partly drawn. His footfalls on the soft rugs scarce heralded his approach. The scene which met his eyes was indeed a pretty one, and for a brief space he stood motionless.

On a low divan in a far corner of the room, Jean had thrown herself with unconscious grace of pose. The warm coloring of the Oriental rug and bright-colored cushions made a charming background for the slender white-clad figure. A tall lamp shed a bright light across the open page of her book, on which her eyes were riveted. Her face was flushed with interest, her soft hair in fine disorder. Farr noted everything, from the golden head, resting upon the silken cushions, to the dainty slippered foot, just peeping beneath the hem of her gown.

A slight movement on his part discovered him to Jean, and she started up in dismay.

"Well, Mr. Farr, you did give me a fright," she cried, laughing confusedly, for his steady gaze disconcerted her somewhat. "I should think you would be ashamed of yourself for having startled me so."

"I am," recovering himself with a slight effort, for the swift change that had swept over Jean's expressive face at his unexpected appearance had set his heart to beating with unwonted emotion. "You will forgive me, will you not?" he finished, as he stood at her side and looked penitently down at her.

"Why, yes, but I don't advise your making a practice of strolling into people's houses, and appearing suddenly in their drawing-rooms; you might be mistaken for a burglar, and I have heard," with a malicious little laugh, "that it is unpleasant to be shot."

"Oh, come now, Miss Jean, you are very unfair to me; if you only knew the real facts of the case."

But Jean was still a little resentful, for she felt that she had been taken at a disadvantage.

"Really?" she answered incredulously, with a mischievous shrug of the shoulders.

"Yes, very," he protested, with a glance of amusement into her upraised eyes. "I did everything I could to gain admission in the regulation way, but was quite unsuccessful."

"What a shame," she said, interrupting him with softened voice. "I suppose the maids were all out in the garden for a stroll this fine night, and I was so absorbed in my book that I didn't hear the knocker."

"And then," he resumed, with a valiant disregard of the truth, "I came in making as much ado as I conveniently could, without calling out or overturning the furniture."

"Under the circumstances I see that you must be forgiven. Won't you be seated, Mr. Farr? I don't know what I have been thinking of, to allow you to remain standing all this while."

"Thank you, no. On the other hand, I want to persuade you to arise."

"Why?"

"Because I am here on a mission. I have come to reproach you for not keeping your promise to join us at the parsonage."

"And to whom am I indebted for this kind and flattering interest?"

"None other than myself."

"Oh, you are too good," she cried laughingly, springing to her feet, and making him a sweeping obeisance.

"If that is your honest opinion, Miss Jean, suppose you prove it by going back with me."

"I can't be a traitor to my words," and she tossed her book on to the table, and preceded him out into the hall-way.

"Is it cool enough for a wrap?"

Farr surveyed her muslin gown with a critical eye.

"Indeed, it is."

"All right," she yielded carelessly, "but I never take cold."

She picked up a coat from the rack, and Farr helped her on with it, and then they wandered out into the night.

"Is it not delicious?" Jean sighed, as they sauntered leisurely along.

"It seems so to me," he returned, with a glance into the girl's eyes.

"Miss Jean," he began, after a brief silence, "Did you not tell me once that there was a pretty walk through the shrubbery?"

"Yes?" with a note of interrogation.

"In which direction would it lead us, if we should take it now?"

"To the parsonage, eventually, but," hesitatingly, "by a much longer way than by the path through the hedge."

"The longer, the better—for me."

"I don't know what they will think has become of us," she demurred.

Farr laughed easily.

"I never trouble myself too much about what people think."

"I don't doubt that you are in no way different from the rest of your sex. I believe it is generally conceded that selfishness is its salient characteristic."

"A popular fallacy. Do I not prove it to you, Miss Jean?"

"Oh, of course you are the exception that proves the rule," she returned with gentle sarcasm.

He stopped suddenly, midway in the path they were traversing, and looked straight down at her. There was a ring of deeper feeling in his voice as he spoke:

"I want you to think just as well of me as you can, and I cannot imagine having a more earnest desire than that I might always prove worthy of your kindest thoughts."

There was a tinge of defiance in Jean's manner as she answered him flippantly:

"Don't you think I would be using my time rather aimlessly, Mr. Farr, were I to give it up to thoughts of you?"

An expression of keen displeasure crossed Farr's face.

"I beg your pardon," he said stiffly.

Instantly Jean repented of her foolish words, and was heartily sorry to have wounded her companion, but the slight tremor at her heart warned her that to confess would be unwise.

"I think of you quite as much as you deserve," she ventured with a nervous little laugh, and she began to walk on toward the shrubbery at a brisker pace.

Farr made no immediate rejoinder, and when he spoke again it was in an altered tone.

"There is quite a fragrance to this box-wood, is there not?"

"Yes, indeed, and a very pleasant one. The perfume is heavy these warm nights after the sun has been shining on it all day."

"You have no idea what a charm the country has for me. I have really been in it so little since I was a boy."

"But your home is in the country, is it not?"

"Yes, but my family spend the winters in Washington, and our country home is only open during the summer months. I don't often get a chance to go down there. My mother keeps the house pretty well filled, for my two married brothers live at home."

"And have you no sisters?"

Farr's voice, which had sounded a little cold when speaking of his home, changed to sudden tenderness.

"Yes, one, and she is the dearest little girl in the world."

"I suppose you love her dearly, and do your best to spoil her?"

"Well, Clarisse and I are certainly great chums," he assented.

"How nice it must be to have an older brother. We girls have always regretted so that we did not have one, although," with a sad little sigh, "we used to have a dear old friend who was just as good as a brother; but he has gone away now."

"I suppose that there are times when they are of some use," said Farr, "although men are so hopelessly selfish."

"I would not think of contradicting you," Jean laughingly averred. "Come, we are talking a great deal, and not making much headway, and it must be growing late."

"I am all tangled up in this maze of by-paths. In which direction is the parsonage from here?"

"If you don't mind climbing a stone wall, we can turn to our right, and take a short cut, and we will be there in no time."

Farr agreed, and they walked on in silence until they had emerged from the shrubbery into a small clearing, skirted on the further side by a wall, its line broken at a certain point where some stones had been thrown down. Farr sprang lightly across, and turned back to assist Jean. Just then the moon, which had slipped under a cloud, shone out again, its soft rays falling directly on the girl's face. She had one foot already on the first stepping stone when he put up his hand to stay her.

"Well," she asked, as he did not speak. "What is it? Are you not going to help me?"

"Of course I am, but," leaning a little toward her, "this wall is a sort of a Rubicon. Once crossed we cannot go back, for we are then in the parsonage grounds. It has been a pleasant walk, and one to be remembered, has it not?"

"Yes," she murmured, with a quick indrawing of her breath.

"I wish——" he began impetuously.

"Mr. Farr," she interposed with gentle decision, "will you please help me over."

He gave her his hand, and gravely assisted her to the ground on the other side.

They were nearing the porch, and already the sounds of gay voices reached them through the stillness of the summer night, when Jean turned abruptly to the man at her side.

"By the way, Mr. Farr, we are to have a visitor shortly, and I hope you men will help us to make it pleasant for her."

He uttered some polite commonplace, and Jean went on:

"Perhaps you know Helen's friend, a Miss Stuart of New York."

A sudden recollection flashed through Farr's mind.

"Not one chance in a thousand that it should be the same," he thought, as he answered indifferently, "I think not."

"I thought possibly you might have met," she said carelessly. "She seems to know almost everyone."

He half turned to put a question to her, but already they were at the vine-covered porch, and Nan's jolly greeting lost him the opportunity.