Turner’s pictures, it left interesting room for speculation. To begin with, there was a dear little pink dog in the foreground, having convulsions on purple grass. In the middle-distance was a lay-figure in orange, picking scarlet apples from what appeared to be a revolving clothes-horse blossoming profusely at the ends of each beam. A little blue brook gurgled merrily up the hill, and disappeared down the other side only to reappear again as a blue streak in an otherwise crushed-strawberry sky. A pumpkin sun was disappearing behind emerald hills, shooting up equidistant yellow rays, like the spokes of a cart-wheel. Underneath 33 this striking composition was embroidered the dubious sentiment “There is no place like home.”

Maxwell examined carefully the square of cross-stitch wool embroidery, biting his lip; while Hepsey watched him narrowly, chuckling quietly to herself. Then she laughed heartily, and asked:

“Confess now; don’t you think it’s beautiful?”

Donald smiled broadly as he replied:

“It’s really quite wonderful. Did you do it yourself?”

“To be sure I did, when I was a little girl and we used to work in wool from samplers, and learn to do alphabets. I’m glad you appreciate it. If you would like to have me embroider anything for the church, don’t hesitate to ask me.” She busied herself examining the stoles again, and asked:

“How much did these things cost, if you don’t mind my askin’?”

“I don’t know. They were given to me by a friend of mine, when I graduated from the Seminary.”

“Hm! a friend of yours, eh? She must think an awful lot of you.”

Hepsey gave Donald a sharp glance.

“I didn’t say it was a lady.”

“No, but your eyes and cheeks did. Well, it’s none of my business, and there’s no reason that I know of 34 why the Devil should have all the bright colors, and embroideries, and things. Are you High Church?”

Maxwell hesitated a moment and replied:

“What do you mean by ‘High Church?’”

“The last rector we had was awful high.” Hepsey smiled with reminiscent amusement.

“How so?”

“We suspected he didn’t wear no pants durin’ service.”

“How very extraordinary! Is that a symptom of ritualism?”

“Well, you see he wore a cassock under his surplice, and none of our parsons had ever done that before. The Senior Warden got real stirred up about it, and told Mr. Whittimore that our rectors always wore pants durin’ service. Mr. Whittimore pulled up his cassock and showed the Warden that he had his pants on. The Warden told him it was an awful relief to his mind, as he considered goin’ without pants durin’ service the enterin’ wedge for Popish tricks; and if things went on like that, nobody knew where we would land. Then some of the women got talkin’, and said that the rector practiced celibacy, and that some one should warn him that the parish wouldn’t stand for any more innovations, and he’d better look out. So one day, Virginia Bascom, the 35 Senior Warden’s daughter, told him what was being said about him. The parson just laughed at Ginty, and said that celibacy was his misfortune, not his fault; and that he hoped to overcome it in time. That puzzled her some, and she came to me and asked what celibacy was. When I told her it was staying unmarried, like St. Paul—my, but wasn’t she mad, though! You ought to have seen her face. She was so mortified that she wouldn’t speak to me for a week. Well, I guess I’ve gossiped enough for now. I must go and make my biscuits for supper. If I can help you any, just call out.”