By supper-time grandma agreed that she seemed well enough to go.
Throughout the meal Pete, who was wearing an aloof and serious
manner, refrained from looking at her, and she strived to keep her
own anxious gaze away from him. He wasn't going to the meeting with
the other three.

Just as the lingering June twilight was beginning to darken--the
most peaceful hour of the day--Missy walked off sedately between her
grandparents. She was wearing her white "best dress." It seemed
appropriate that your best clothes should be always involved in the
matter of church going; that the spiritual beatification within
should be reflected by the garments without.

The Methodist church in Cherryvale prided itself that it was not
"new-fangled." It was not nearly so pretentious in appearance as was
the Presbyterian church. Missy, in her heart, preferred stained-
glass windows and their glorious reflections, as an asset to
religion; but at night services you were not apt to note that
deficiency.

She sat well up front with her grandparents, as befitted their
position as pillars of the church, and from this vantage had a good
view of the proceedings. She could see every one in the choir,
seated up there behind the organ on the side platform. Polly Currier
was in the choir; she wasn't a Methodist, but she had a flute-like
soprano voice, and the Methodists--whom all the town knew had "poor
singing"--had overstepped the boundaries of sectarianism for this
revival. Polly looked like an angel in pink lawn and rose-wreathed
leghorn hat; she couldn't know that Missy gazed upon her with secret