the children to remember always, that Miss Dorothy was married while they were there to help.

They helped so much in the matter of scraping all the cake and icing pans, stoning, and especially eating, raisins, that it was a wonder they were not ill.

The morning on which the wedding was to take place dawned as bright and golden as could be desired.

It was a very simple, pretty wedding in the stone chapel, towards which, in the early morning, the bridal party walked. Nan, Ethelwyn, and Elizabeth went ahead, bearing flowers, and after them came Miss Dorothy in her white gown, clinging to the arm of her sailor lover.

Mrs. Stevens and the children's mother, together with a few friends, awaited them in the pretty church, and Nan's father married them. They then all went to the bride's home for breakfast, immediately after which, the young couple were going away for a year. This fact, and the mother's sad face impaired the appetites of the guests, with three noble exceptions. The trio at the end of the table ate with zest and unimpaired enthusiasm, of the good things that they fondly believed might never have reached their present point of perfection had it not been for their skill.

"Should you think," Elizabeth paused to say, in a somewhat muffled voice, entirely owing to plum cake and not grief, "that one of us is married too?"

"My father," returned Nan loftily, "is not given to making mistakes of that kind. There weren't husbands enough to go 'round anyway."

"What is a husband?"

"You've been helping make one, child, and you ask that!"

So Elizabeth concluded it was a small portion of the refreshments that had escaped her notice.

Afterwards they went down to the harbor from which the bride and groom were to sail.

"Like the owl and the pussy cat," said Ethelwyn, cheerfully.

As they kissed their friend good-bye, they placed around her neck a pretty chain, hanging from which was a medallion with their pictures painted on it.

"You can look at us when you get lonesome," suggested Beth.

The last good-bye was said, and they drove sadly home in a fine, drenching rain that had suddenly fallen like a vail over their golden day.

'Vada had started the open fires and they were cheerfully cracking, while Polly from her pole croaked crossly, "Shut up, do! Quit making all that fuss!"

Mrs. Rayburn took Aunty Stevens away with her, and by and by in the afternoon, they found her tucked up on the couch in their sitting-room looking somewhat happier.

"Aren't you glad you have us, and specially mother?" asked Beth, kissing her.

There was only one answer possible to this, and it was given with such emphasis that Ethelwyn nodded and said, "That's the way we feel. Mother knows how to fix things right better'n anybody, unless it should be God."

"Let's sing awhile, sister, while mother thinks of a story or two," suggested Beth.

So they squatted in front of the grate and sang,

Then they sang what they called "Precious Julias,"

"Why," Beth stopped to ask, "does it say Precious Julias when it's 'bout Mary Deemer, sister?"

"Middle name, prob'ly," answered Ethelwyn; "anyway that's Mary Deemer," pointing to a picture of Murillo's "Magdalene," "and the reason that she's loved by children, is because she is pretty and good. If you are good, Elizabeth, people will love you."

"I'm as good as you are, anyway," began Beth wrathfully, when she saw Nan in the doorway.

"May I come in?" she asked, wistfully. "Mother has a headache, father's gone fishing in a boat, and I've a toothpick in my side."

"Come in, deary," said Mrs. Rayburn, who felt an infinite pity for sturdy little Nan, with her invalid mother. "Bless me, what cold hands! What's this thing you have in your side?" she continued, cuddling Nan up in her lap.

Nan breathed a contented breath. "O, it's gone now. It's a sharp, pointed thing that sticks me when I'm lonesome."

"We're having Sunday-school, the singing part, and you may come if you're good, and know a verse, and won't baptize the Sunday-school," said Beth, multiplying conditions rapidly.

"I know a verse that father says he thinks ought to be in the Bible," said Nan.

"Let's not have Sunday-school," she continued, snuggling down on Mrs. Rayburn's shoulder. "It's so nice here, and I want to tell you 'bout my dream I had the other night. Dreamed I went to heaven awhile, and when I came home I slid down fifty miles of live wire and sissed all the way down like a hot flatiron."

"There's a gold crack in the sky now that shows a little weenty bit of Heaven's floor, I think, right now," said Ethelwyn, going to the west window.

They all followed her, and sure enough there was the gold of the sky shining through the misty rain clouds.

"Now, if God and the angels would just peek out a minute, I'd be thankful," said Elizabeth.

The children were always glad when Mrs. Flaharty came to wash, for she was never too busy to talk to them, nor to let them wash dolls' clothes in some of her suds, nor, in her own way, to converse, and to explain things to them.

One Monday morning the two were in the back yard with gingham aprons tied around their waists for trails, and with one of Aunty Stevens' bright saucepans which they put on their heads in turn. In this rig, they felt that their appearance left little to be desired.

They were having literary exercises while Mrs. Flaharty was hanging the white clothes on the line, and, by reason of her exceeding interest in the proceedings, she took her time about it too.

In the midst of Ethelwyn's recitation of "Mary Had a Little Lamb," she paused to say, after, "The eager children cry,"

"What do you s'pose the silly things cried for?"

"'Cause they didn't have any lamb, prob'ly," promptly replied Elizabeth from the audience, where she sat surrounded by her dolls. "Hurry up, sister, it's my turn."

"Is it ager, children, you're askin' about?" asked Mrs. Flaharty, flopping out a sheet. "If you'd ever had the ager, what wid the pain in your bones an' the faver in your blood, you'd be likely to cry—whin you had the stren'th."

"Is it shaking ager?" asked Elizabeth doubtfully. "Oh, I didn't know that. Come and sit down on the steps, Mrs. Flaharty, and I'll tell a story I made up for this special 'casion."

"It's troo wid the white does I am, an' I reckin I can sit and take me breath before I begin on the colored; besides, I'd have to be takin' away the foine costumes ye has roun' your waists, if I wint now." So Mrs. Flaharty sat down ponderously.

"I've a poem, too," said Ethelwyn, taking her place in the audience, and Elizabeth began:

"Once there was a little boy whose father was cross to him, and kept him home all the while, and when he let him go anywhere, he said he 'mustn't' and 'don't' so much, it spoiled all his fun. Once the boy went in the woods where lived a fairy prince. 'Go not near the fairy prince,' had said the boy's father so much that the boy thought he'd die if he did. So the fairy prince looked over the back fence and said, 'Avast there,' so the boy avasted as fast as he could. 'I'm in