head. Earnest and intent, they filled the building with the
Festival Te Deum of Dudley Buck, Opus 63, No.1.

Elizabeth Wheeler liked choir practice. She liked the way in
which, after the different parts had been run through, the voices
finally blended into harmony and beauty. She liked the small
sense of achievement it gave her, and of being a part, on Sundays,
of the service. She liked the feeling, when she put on the black
cassock and white surplice and the small round velvet cap of
having placed in her locker the things of this world, such as a
rose-colored hat and a blue georgette frock, and of being stripped,
as it were, for aspirations.

At such times she had vague dreams of renunciation. She saw
herself cloistered in some quiet spot, withdrawn from the world; a
place where there were long vistas of pillars and Gothic arches,
after a photograph in the living room at home, and a great organ
somewhere, playing.

She would go home from church, however, clad in the rose-colored
hat and the blue georgette frock, and eat a healthy Sunday luncheon;
and by two o'clock in the afternoon, when the family slept and Jim
had gone to the country club, her dreams were quite likely to be
entirely different. Generally speaking, they had to do with love.
Romantic, unclouded young love dramatic only because it was love,
and very happy.

Sometime, perhaps, some one would come and say he loved her. That
was all. That was at once the beginning and the end. Her dreams
led up to that and stopped. Not by so much as a hand clasp did