Alice Robinson, whose compositions were always marked 96 or
97,--100 symbolizing such perfection as could be attained in the
mortal world of Riverboro,--Alice, not only Daughter, but Scribe
of Zion, sharpened her pencil and wrote a few well-chosen words
of introduction, to be used when the records of the afternoon had
been made by Emma Jane Perkins and Jacob Moody.

Rebecca's heart beat tumultuously under her gingham dress. She
felt that a drama was being enacted, and though unfortunately she
was not the central figure, she had at least a modest part in it.
The short lot had not fallen to the properest Daughter, that she
quite realized; yet would any one of them succeed in winning
Jacob Moody's attention, in engaging him in pleasant
conversation, and finally in bringing him to a realization of his
mistaken way of life? She doubted, but at the same moment her
spirits rose at the thought of the difficulties involved in the
undertaking.

Difficulties always spurred Rebecca on, but they daunted poor
Emma Jane, who had no little thrills of excitement and wonder and
fear and longing to sustain her lagging soul. That her interview
was to be entered as "minutes" by a secretary seemed to her the
last straw. Her blue eyes looked lighter than usual and had the
glaze of china saucers; her usually pink cheeks were pale, but
she pressed on, determined to be a faithful Daughter of Zion, and
above all to be worthy of Rebecca's admiration and respect.

"Rebecca can do anything," she thought, with enthusiastic
loyalty, "and I mustn't be any stupider than I can help, or
she'll choose one of the other girls for her most intimate