she had often sat in the Peabody pew, sometimes at first as a girl of
sixteen when asked by Esther, and then, on coming home from school at
eighteen, "finished," she had been invited now and again by Mrs. Peabody
herself, on those Sundays when her own invalid mother had not attended
service.

Those were wonderful Sundays--Sundays of quiet, trembling peace and
maiden joy.

Justin sat beside her, and she had been sure then, but had long since
grown to doubt the evidence of her senses, that he, too, vibrated with
pleasure at the nearness. Was there not a summer morning when his hand
touched her white lace mitt as they held the hymn-book together, and the
lines of the

Rise, my soul, and stretch thy wings,
Thy better portion trace,

became blurred on the page and melted into something indistinguishable
for a full minute or two afterward? Were there not looks, and looks, and
looks? Or had she some misleading trick of vision in those days?
Justin's dark, handsome profile rose before her: the level brows and fine
lashes; the well-cut nose and lovable mouth--the Peabody mouth and chin,
somewhat too sweet and pliant for strength, perhaps. Then the eyes
turned to hers in the old way, just for a fleeting glance, as they had so
often done at prayer-meeting, or sociable, or Sunday service. Was it not
a man's heart she had seen in them? And oh, if she could only be sure
that her own woman's heart had not looked out from hers, drawn from its
maiden shelter in spite of all her wish to keep it hidden!