the service aloud. Monica found the duty of listening rather
grievous. During the months that she was alone in London she had
fallen into neglect of public worship; not from any conscious
emancipation, but because her companions at the house of business
never dreamt of entering a church, and their example by degrees
affected her with carelessness. At present she was glad of the
pretext for escaping until dinner-time.

She went forth with the intention of deceiving her sisters, of
walking to Clapham Common, and on her return inventing some sermon
at a church the others never visited. But before she had gone many
yards conscience overcame her. Was she not getting to be a very
lax-minded girl? And it was shameful to impose upon the two after
their loving-kindness to her. As usual, her little prayer-book was
in her pocket. She walked quickly to the familiar church, and
reached it just as the doors were being closed.

Of all the congregation she probably was the one who went through
the service most mechanically. Not a word reached her understanding.
Sitting, standing, or on her knees, she wore the same preoccupied
look, with ever and again a slight smile or a movement of the lips,
as if she were recalling some conversation of special interest.

Last Sunday she had had an adventure, the first of any real moment
that had befallen her in London. She had arranged to go with Miss
Eade on a steamboat up the river. They were to meet at the Battersea
Park landing-stage at half-past two. But Miss Eade did not keep her
appointment, and Monica, unwilling to lose the trip, started alone.

She disembarked at Richmond and strayed about for an hour or two,