doubt, except—there's the bell!" And then Mrs. Tweedie added in a whisper, "I would not have this repeated for worlds."

Just then Mrs. Stout entered the room unannounced.

"My dear Mrs. Stout, good morning," said Mrs. Tweedie. "We were just this moment speaking of you."

"Was you now?" smilingly responded Mrs. Stout, as she sat down in the largest chair in the room and began fanning herself with a photograph that she took from a table. "How d'y do, Mis' Flint. I ain't set eyes on you since our Fast Day union meetin'. How's the parson? I heard he was feelin' kinder streaked."

"Quite well, thank you," replied Mrs. Flint, rather coldly.

Mrs. Stout was the wife of Peter Stout, grocer, and the mother of three boys. Though her grammar, manners, and dress did not reach to Mrs. Tweedie's lofty ideals, she had many friends in Manville among those who did not pretend to be more than they were. Her family—of course she had a father and mother, but her grandfathers and grandmothers—no one had ever taken the pains to draw the likeness of a tree and write on its naked branches the names of her ancestors. Despite the lack of grandfathers and grandmothers, she had a large measure of common sense, and a big heart.

"We don't seem to be crowded here," remarked Mrs. Stout, after a moment's pause. "Anybody else comin'?"

"We hope so, but it is early yet, you know, only half-past ten," explained Mrs. Tweedie.

"Early? Good land!" exclaimed Mrs. Stout. "I've been up these five hours and done all my work. Oh, there was somethin' I wanted to ask perticler. Is Lizzie Sawyer goin' to join?"

"Yes," replied Mrs. Tweedie, and wondered what was coming next.

"Well," said Mrs. Stout, confidentially, "the reason I wanted to know was that she and I don't get along very well together, but there, I guess we can manage somehow to keep from clashin'."

Mrs. Tweedie saw rough weather ahead, and proceeded to pour oil upon the waters before the storm broke.

"Miss Sawyer was one of the first asked to join," she replied. "She is an exceptionally well-educated woman, and has signified her willingness to read several papers on vital topics before the club when we are ready for such work."

"Papers? Newspapers?" Mrs. Stout asked, with a puzzled look.

"No, indeed! Papers—essays on—on—" Mrs. Tweedie tried to reduce her language to Mrs. Stout's mental level in vain.

"Oh, how stoopid I am!" Mrs. Stout interrupted, thereby unconsciously rescuing Mrs. Tweedie from her difficulty, "I understand now. I s'pose she'll try to tell us a lot about religion, and—"

"Pardon me," said Mrs. Tweedie, quickly, "I think not. Would it be wise to discuss religion at our meetings? I am sure that the other sex never tolerate it in their organizations."

"I s'pose you mean the men?" queried Mrs. Stout.

"I do."

"Well, that's true enough, I guess, but it ain't because they don't think it's wise. It's because men don't naturally hanker after religion. There's my husband, a good 'nough man, but I can't get him to go to meetin' to save me, though he will go fishin' spite of all I can say or do."

"Really!" gasped Mrs. Flint. "Does he really fish on the Sabbath?"

"He certainly does," replied Mrs. Stout, "jest as reg'lar as he eats his vi't'ls."

Mrs. Tweedie and Mrs. Flint were horribly shocked, and to their cultured minds perhaps "vi't'ls" was quite as shocking as Sabbath fishing.

"And what else are we goin' to do besides havin' papers read?" continued Mrs. Stout.

"We hope," replied Mrs. Tweedie, "to spend our time in the study and discussion of subjects which will be uplifting, that will make ourselves, and aid us in helping others, to be stronger, morally and intellectually."

"You don't mean it!" said Mrs. Stout, with mock gravity. "And when we ain't doin' that I s'pose we'll be talkin' about other folks and their businesses."

"I trust not," replied Mrs. Tweedie, much distressed. "Of course, some people are improperly interested in the affairs of others, but we hope that those so inclined will not become members of our club."

"Well, I hope so, too," said Mrs. Stout, with a suspicious twinkle in her eyes. "But it's hard, dreadful hard, Mis' Tweedie, to get a crowd of women folks together without some one sayin' somethin' about somebody that they wouldn't have said if she was there."

Mrs. Tweedie was as near to tears of mortification as a woman of her kind ever gets. She had never realized before how brutally truthful Mrs. Stout could be.

"Oh!" exclaimed Mrs. Stout, abruptly changing the subject, "is Miss Wallace, the schoolteacher that boards with you, goin' to belong?"

"Yes," replied Mrs. Tweedie. "She is heartily in sympathy with us, but will not be able to attend many meetings because of her work."

"I'm real glad that she's goin' to join, I like her," said Mrs. Stout, simply, and she meant it. Miss Wallace was likable, but not many in Manville had discovered her good qualities. "There's somebody else!" exclaimed Mrs. Stout, as she heard the bell which rang at that moment, and then added, quickly, "Excuse me, of course you don't go to the door when you have a girl."

A soft voice was heard asking for Mrs. Tweedie, and then the masculine tones of Dora inviting some one to come in.

"Oh, is it you, Miss Sawyer?" said Mrs. Tweedie, all smiles, when the newcomer appeared in the doorway. "We are so glad that you could come. Of course, you know Mrs. Stout, and—"

Miss Sawyer bowed stiffly.

"Glad to see you," said Mrs. Stout, telling the lie that has been told oftener than any other.

Miss Elizabeth Sawyer was a lady of—her age does not matter. She was tall and very slight, her hair was gray, and her eyes were the bulging, staring kind that always seemed about to jump from their sockets, caused in some degree, perhaps, by the black-rimmed eye-glasses secured by a heavy cord which she constantly wore. She had the reputation of being very intellectual. The very person, Mrs. Tweedie thought, to shine in a woman's club.

When Miss Sawyer spied Mrs. Flint she rushed into her arms. She considered Mrs. Flint as near her equal mentally as it was possible for any woman in Manville to be. They sat down together, and cooed for several minutes in the most impolite manner possible, so Mrs. Tweedie thought, probably because she could not hear a word that they said. Mrs. Stout moved uneasily, and Mrs. Tweedie coughed several times, but with no effect.

"Ain't it most time we was doin' somethin' about this club we came here to get up?" Mrs. Stout asked, impatiently, when she could contain herself no longer.

"Yes," replied Mrs. Tweedie, "when the others are ready; and I was waiting—I had hoped that my daughter Fanny, she is to be one of us, you know, would be here by this time. I can't imagine—" Mrs. Tweedie was interrupted by the entrance of her son Thomas, the bad angel of the Tweedie household.

"Ma," he blubbered, "Dora won't give me a piece of cake. Can't I have some, ma?" This exhibition of domestic turmoil made Mrs. Tweedie very angry, and it was with difficulty that she controlled herself.

"Thomas, leave the room immediately," she commanded, sternly.

"Am I goin' to have any cake?" the young man demanded when he saw that tears were of no avail.

"Thomas, I insist upon your leaving the room at once," replied his mother, firmly. The ladies were watching breathlessly the contest between mother and son.

"I won't go 'less I can have some cake," said the boy, defiantly. Mrs. Tweedie went to the door, and called