Then after the great toilet-making of the week we were off. The drive over
the prairie in the democrat wagon behind our smartest pair of plough
horses was a pleasure that never grew tame from repetition. Arriving at
the church, I would give my bouquets to the old stoop-shouldered sexton
and watch him anxiously as he ambled down the aisle with them. Perhaps my
flowers--yes, the very flowers that I had dashed the dew from that
morning--would be placed on the pulpit itself, not on the table below, nor
yet about the gallery where sat the choir. Then indeed I felt honoured.
But wherever they might be, I could watch them all through the services,
perhaps catch their fragrance from some favouring breeze, and feel that
they were own folks from home.

Even sermon time did not seem long. After I had noted the text to prepare
for catechism at home, I was free to dream as I chose until the rustle of
relief at the close of the speaking. And the droning of bees and buzzing
of flies, or the sudden clamour of a hen somewhere near would come
floating in through the open window, and the odour of the flowers and the
twigs of the "ellum" tree tapping at the pane helped to make the little
church a haven of restfulness.

But on the Sunday following my awakening I had no care for sounds outside,
no eyes for my bouquets, though they stood at either hand of the pulpit; I
got permission to sit in Aunt Keren's pew, where I could see Aunt Em'ly's
face; and all through the sermon I studied it with big, round eyes.

Yes, and with sorrow growing leaden in my heart.

For I was not old enough to see in her face what it had been, nor to
appreciate the fine profile that remained. Hers was not the pink-and-white