"But those are good things, and beautiful things," defended
David, his eyes wide and puzzled.

"In their place, perhaps," conceded the man, stiffly. "but not on
God's day."

"You mean--He wouldn't like them?"

"Yes."

"Oh!"--and David's face cleared. "That's all right, then. Your
God isn't the same one, sir, for mine loves all beautiful things
every day in the year."

There was a moment's silence. For the first time in his life
Simeon Holly found himself without words.

"We won't talk of this any more, David," he said at last; "but
we'll put it another way--I don't wish you to play your fiddle on
Sunday. Now, put it up till to-morrow." And he turned and went
down the hall.

Breakfast was a very quiet meal that morning. Meals were never
things of hilarious joy at the Holly farmhouse, as David had
already found out; but he had not seen one before quite so somber
as this. It was followed immediately by a half-hour of
Scripture-reading and prayer, with Mrs. Holly and Perry Larson
sitting very stiff and solemn in their chairs, while Mr. Holly
read. David tried to sit very stiff and solemn in his chair,
also; but the roses at the window were nodding their heads and