going to have--TEA!"

"We always have tea," Hannah said,
sourly; yet she was not really sour, for,
like William King and Dr. Lavendar,
Hannah had discerned possibilities in
the Rev. John Fenn's pastoral visits.
"Get your Sunday-go-to-meeting dress
on," she commanded, hunching a shawl
over a rheumatic shoulder and motioning
the girl out of the kitchen.

Philippa, remorseful and breathless,
ran quickly up to her room to put on
her best frock, smooth her shining hair
down in two loops over her ears, and
pin her one adornment, a flat gold
brooch, on the bosom of her dress. She
lifted her candle and looked at herself
in the black depths of the little swinging
glass on her high bureau, and her
face fell into sudden wistful lines.
"Oh, I do not look wicked," she thought,
despairingly.

John Fenn, glancing at her across the
supper-table, had some such thought
himself; how strange that one who was
so perverted in belief should not betray
perversion in her countenance. "On