arose, Randy had no eyes for any one but the Grays’ lovely boarder, and she almost held her breath as she wondered if the girl would sing.

The tall tenor touched his tuning fork, the choir sounded the chord, then choir and congregation joined in singing the old missionary hymn, “From Greenland’s Icy Mountains,” and round and full rang out the sweet contralto voice of the tall, fair girl in white.

Randy was spellbound. She had never admired that hymn, but to-day it sounded sweeter than anything she had ever heard. Little Prue looked at the singer with round eyes, and as they sat down she clutched Randy’s skirts and in a loud whisper said, “Oh, Randy, do you s’pose she is the fairy princess?”

“Oh, hush!” said Randy, alarmed lest the young girl should hear the child.

Did she hear her? She sat in the pew just in front of the Westons’, and when Prue whispered her eager question, a faint suggestion of a smile hovered about the lovely mouth, and a bright twinkle glimmered for an instant in her beautiful eyes.

Just then Parson Spooner arose, gave out the text, and commenced one of his long sermons. He was a good man, with a kindly word and smile for every one, and all of his people were devoutly fond of him. The people liked him, and he always had a pleasant chat with every child whom he met, and most of them thought that he was “lots” nicer on week-days than on Sundays. On week-days he talked with the boy whom he chanced to meet with his fishing-rod over his shoulder, and laughingly wished him good luck. Or, if it happened that the small owner of a home-made kite could not make it fly, the genial parson had been known to tie a new bob (usually a few weeds tied together) to the tail of the refractory kite, and off it would sail to the delight of the small boy and his clerical friend.

But on Sundays, his sermons, delivered in a drowsy sing-song, tried the patience of his small parishioners. Prue and Randy settled down as if for a long day of it, and Randy resolved that, however long the sermon might be, she would not get sleepy; whereupon, she stretched her eyes to their fullest extent, and stared at nothing so persistently, that Prue became uneasy, and whispered, “What’s the matter, Randy? you look so queer!”

“Nothing,” said Randy. “I just mean to keep my eyes open, that’s all.”

“They are open, just monstrous!” said Prue, at which Randy could not help laughing. As the little girl was not aware that she had said anything that was at all funny, she thought Randy’s amusement quite out of place, and sat quietly for a few moments, in injured silence.

Randy tried very hard to attend to the sermon, but in spite of good intentions, her mind wandered from Parson Spooner’s flushed face, as he proceeded to make his meaning clear by loud vocal efforts, and to enforce his meaning by many thumps of his fat fist upon the pulpit cushion.

Mrs. Brimblecom sat over by the window, slowly waving a palm-leaf fan to and fro, and occasionally nudging her husband, to keep him awake. In front of her, sat Joel Simpkins, his sandy hair brushed so carefully that not one hair was awry, and just across the aisle, Janie Clifton sat, in all the glory of a new pink calico. Janie’s black curls were very pretty, and she knew it; and her bright, black eyes had been pointedly praised in an alleged poem, which had appeared in the county paper a few weeks before. It was entitled the “Black-eyed Coquette,” and Janie felt sure that Joel had written it, in which case, its boldly expressed flattery could have been meant for none other than herself. Accordingly, she shook her curls, and occasionally looked at Joel, in a manner which Randy considered shockingly bold, and she wondered if, at eighteen, she could act like that. She decided that she could never be so bold, not even if the object of her admiration looked like a prince.

She thought, too, that Joel was very ordinary; then she looked again at the girl in the daisy-trimmed hat and white muslin gown, and fell to wondering how fine and handsome a prince would have to be to gain her favor.

“Probably there isn’t any one in these parts that would please her,” thought Randy. “’Tisn’t only her clothes,” mused she, “it’s something else that makes her different from the folks around here.”

All this time Prue had been unusually still, and Randy looked to see if she was asleep. The little girl was very wide awake, and sat staring at the large hat in front of her, her lips moving as if she were counting. Prue’s manner of counting was something unique, and as Randy bent her head to listen, she could hardly help laughing, for this is what she heard:—

“One, two, four, five, two, six, ten, nine, two,—oh, Randy, there’s more daisies on her hat than I can count. Are they truly daisies? If they are, why don’t they wilt?”

“Hush-sh-sh,” said Randy. “Keep still and watch that big bumble bee that’s just come in the window.”