of scent over her f rock.

It was the morning of the St. Luke's annual Sunday-school treat. The
waggonette was at the vicarage door. The vicar and his wife and
daughter waited fussily for Maisie, an unpunctual damsel. The vicar
looked at his watch. They were three minutes late, He tut-tutted
impatiently. The vicar's daughter ran indoors in search of Maisie
and pounced upon her as she sat on the edge of the bed in the act of
perfuming a handkerchief. The shock caused the bottle to slip mouth
downward from her hand and empty the contents into her lap. She
cried out in dismay.

"Never mind," said the vicar's daughter. "Come along. Dad and mother
are prancing about downstairs."

"But I must change my dress!"

"You've no time."

"I'm wet through. This is the strongest scent known. It's twenty-six
shillings a bottle, and one little drop is enough. I shall be a
walking pestilence."

The vicar's daughter laughed heartlessly. "You do smell strong. But
you'll disinfect Bludston, and that will be a good thing." Whereupon
she dragged the tearful and redolent damsel from the room.

In the hard-featured yard of the schoolhouse the children were
assembled-the girls on one side, the boys on the other. Curates and
teachers hovered about the intervening space. Almost every child