attic, rose the huge gray stone chimney, like a massive backbone
to the body of the house. What stories of the past the old chimney
could have told! What descriptions of Hapgoods, long dead, who had
warmed themselves about it! What secret papers had been burned in
its wide throat! What sweet and tender home scenes had been
enacted on the old settles ranged before its glowing hearths,
which put to shame our tiny modern fireplaces and insignificant
grates! But the old chimney kept its own counsel, and did not
whisper a word, even to the swallows that built their nests in the
crannies of its sides. If it had spoken, there would be no need
for any one else to write of the doings of the V; for the chimney
had silently watched the children day by day, and knew, better
than any one besides, the simple story of their young lives.

"Now," Polly reminded them, as they were running down the stairs
an hour later; "remember to come to-morrow at just three, all of
you."

"What's up?" inquired Alan curiously.

"'Pilgrim's Progress,'" said Jean, as she leaped down from the
fourth stair, and landed in an ignominious pile on her knees;
"we're going to read it aloud together."

"I'm sorry for you, then," responded Alan. "Mother read it to me
when I had scarlet fever, ever so long ago, and it's no end
stupid."

"We're going to try it, anyway," said Polly, with an air of
determination. "Come on, Jean; it's time I was at home. I'll see