cautiously, so that her voice might not be heard within.

"Then you come over to-morrow, after the close of service, if it's
convenient. You can slip right into the kitchen, just as usual. Any
news?"

Phoebe, too, lowered her voice, but the full sweetness of its quality
thrilled out.

"Mary Frances Giles is going to be married next week. I've been down to
see her things. She's real pleased."

"You don't suppose they'll ask father to marry 'em?" Miss Dorcas spoke
quite eagerly.

"Oh, no, they can't! It's a real wedding, you know. It's got to be at
the house."

"Yes, of course it's got to! I knew that myself, but I couldn't help
hoping. Well, goodnight. You come Sunday."

Phoebe lifted her pink skirts about her, and stepped, rustling and
stately, down the garden walk. Miss Dorcas drew one deep breath of the
outer fragrance, and turned back into the house. A thin voice,
enfeebled and husky from old age, rose in the front room, as she
entered:

"Dorcas! Dorcas! you had a caller?"

Her father, old Parson True, lay in the great bed opposite the window.