could hear the oriole singing in the elm; his song was almost
articulate. The trees waved a little, in a friendly fashion, through
the open windows; friendly in the unspoken kinship of green things to
our thought, yet remote in their own seclusion. One tall, delicate
locust, gowned in summer's finest gear, stirred idly at the top, as if
through an inward motion, untroubled by the wind. Dorcas's mind sought
out the doctor, listening to the sermon in her bare little church, and
she felt quite content. She had entered the first court of love, where
a spiritual possession is enough, and asks no alms of bodily nearness.
When she came to the end of the sermon, her hands fell in her lap, and
she gave herself up without reserve to the idle delight of satisfied
dreaming. The silence pressed upon her father, and he opened his eyes
wide with the startled look of one who comprehends at once the
requirements of time and place. Then, in all solemnity, he put forth
his hands; and Dorcas, bending her head, received the benediction for
the congregation he would never meet again. She roused herself to bring
in his beef-tea, and at the moment of carrying away the tray, a step
sounded on the walk. She knew who it was, and smiled happily. The
lighter foot keeping pace beside it, she did not hear.

"Dorcas," said her father, "git your bunnit. It's time for
Sunday-school."

"Yes, father."

The expected knock came at the door. She went forward, tying on her
bonnet, and her cheeks were pink. The doctor stood on the doorstone,
and Phoebe was with him. He smiled at Dorcas, and put out his hand.
This, according to Tiverton customs, was a warm demonstration at so
meaningless a moment; it seemed a part of his happy friendliness. It