that."

And so the conversation went on until there were twenty lines on the
paper. The game was growing exciting and, under the stress of it, the
counting on the old settee rose above the discreet whisper it was
originally meant to be. "Twenty-one!" cried Amanda. Aunt Rebecca walked
to the door.

"What's you two up to?" she asked. "Oh, you got the hymn-book. My
goodness, what for you writin' on the hymn-book?" She turned to her
sister. "Ain't you goin' to make 'em stop that? A hymn-book ain't to be
wrote on!"

"Twenty-two," cried Phil, secure in the knowledge that his mother would
not object to their use of the book and safely confident that the aunt
could not dream what they were doing.

"What is twenty-two? Look once, Amanda," said the woman, taking the
mention of the number to refer to a hymn.

The girl opened the book. "Beulah Land," she read, a sudden compunction
seizing her.

"Ach, yes, Beulah Land--I sang that when I was a girl still. My
goodness, abody gets old quick." She sighed and returned to her sewing.

"Twenty-three, countin' the last one," prompted Phil. "Mark it down.
Gee, it's a cinch."

But Amanda looked sober. "Phil, mebbe it ain't right to make fun of her