dirt, and gladness where was dulness, makes flowers grow where were
weeds, it profiteth nothing--if one's business is not told. Be honest,
Lizzie. Isn't that so?"

Mrs. Moon glanced anxiously at the clock on the mantel just under the
portrait of Mrs. Tate's great-grandfather, and hurriedly folded her
work. She never came to a meeting of the Needlework Guild if she
thought it likely Miss Gibbie would be there. But Miss Gibbie was
even less regular than Miss Honoria Brockenborough, and her attendance
to-day was evidently for a purpose. By herself Miss Gibbie was an
Occasion, a visit to her was an experience that gave color and life to
the dullest of days, and she did not deny her enjoyment of Miss Gibbie's
comments on people and things. But Mrs. Pryor and Miss Gibbie together
made an atmosphere too electrical for her peace-loving nature, and
she was wondering if it were possible to get away when the door opened
and Mrs. Tate's maid put her head inside.

"Mis' Pryor," she said, and her eyes seemed all whites, "somebody at
the telephone say for you to come on home' that Mr. Pryor done took
sick on the street and they've brung him in. Miss Lizzie Bettie say to
come on quick."

Every woman turned in her seat. From some came exclamations of
frightened sympathy. From others a movement to rise, as if the summons
had come to them, but Mrs. Pryor waved them back.

"I don't think it is anything serious," she said, bluntly. "I can't
even go to a meeting in peace. Lizzie Bettie is so excitable. Mr. Pryor
has been having attacks of indigestion for months. He ate sausage this
morning for breakfast. He knows he can't eat sausage."