"I was thinking too much about it," said Anne, soberly. "I shouldn't
have heard a word of the sermon if I had worn my hair that way," and
she went on braiding it into its customary tight and unbecoming
pigtails.

"Well, of all things," ejaculated Judy, gazing at her spellbound.

But when Anne had gone, Judy stood up and watched her from the window.
"What a queer little thing she is," she murmured, as the bobbing figure
went up and down the village path, "what a queer little thing she is."

But somehow the actions of the queer girl distracted her mind so that
she could not go back to her attitude of lazy indifference. She had
thought Anne a little commonplace until now; but it had not been a
commonplace thing, that changing from prettiness to plainness. She
even wondered if Anne had not done a finer act than she could have done
herself.

"She is a queer little thing," she said again, thoughtfully, and after
a long pause, "but she is good--"

She went to her wardrobe and took out a white dress. Then she got out
her hat and gloves and laid them on the bed. And then she sat and
looked at them, and then she began to dress.

And so it came about that Fairfax church had that morning two
sensations. In the first place Anne Batcheller came in late for the
only time in her life, and in the second place, when the service was
half over, a slender, distinguished maiden in a violet-wreathed white
hat, slipped along the aisle, flashing a glance at Anne as she passed,