on different minds, more or less remotely connected with it.

That my analysis of my impressions in the church that morning are
not colored by subsequent events is proved by the fact that under
cover of that date, July 16th, I made the following entry:

"Why do Maggie and Miss Benton distrust each other?"

I realized it even then, although I did not consider it serious, as
is evidenced by the fact that I follow it with a recipe for fruit
gelatin, copied from the newspaper.

It was a calm and sunny Sunday morning. The church windows were
wide open, and a butterfly came in and set the choir boys to
giggling. At the end of my pew a stained-glass window to Carlo
Benton--the name came like an echo from the forgotten past--sent
a shower of colored light over Willie, turned my blue silk to most
unspinsterly hues, and threw a sort of summer radiance over Miss
Emily herself, in the seat ahead.

She sat quite alone, impeccably neat, even to her profile. She was
so orderly, so well balanced, one stitch of her hand-sewed organdy
collar was so clearly identical with every other, her very seams,
if you can understand it, ran so exactly where they should, that she
set me to pulling myself straight. I am rather casual as to seams.

After a time I began to have a curious feeling about her. Her head
was toward the rector, standing in a sort of white nimbus of
sunlight, but I felt that Miss Emily's entire attention was on our
pew, immediately behind her. I find I can not put it into words,