odious, as flower-de-luces do when handled roughly. "There's a worm in
that leaf, Myrtle. He has rolled it all round him, and hidden himself
from sight; but there is a horrid worm in it, for all it is so young and
fresh. There is a worm in every young soul, Myrtle."

"But there is not a worm in every leaf, Miss Cynthia. Look," she said,"
all these are open, and you can see all over and under them, and there is
nothing there. Are there never any worms in the leaves after they get
old and yellow, Miss Cynthia?"

That was a pretty fair hit for a simple creature of fifteen, but perhaps
she was not so absolutely simple as one might have thought.

It was on the evening of this same day that they were sitting together.
The sweet season was opening, and it seemed as if the whispering of the
leaves, the voices of the birds, the softness of the air, the young life
stirring in everything, called on all creatures to join the universal
chorus of praise that was going up around them.

"What shall we sing this evening?" said Miss Silence.

"Give me one of the books, if you please, Cousin Silence," said Miss
Cynthia. "It is Saturday evening. Holy time has begun. Let us prepare
our minds for the solemnities of the Sabbath."

She took the book, one well known to the schools and churches of this
nineteenth century.

"Book Second. Hymn 44. Long metre. I guess 'Putney' will be as good a
tune as any to sing it to."