The tall tiger lilies blazed and glowed in the sunshine; the day lilies opened their white bells, the yellow lilies gleamed like gold, and away down on Silver Lake, lovely pond lilies, cool, and pure, and white, with golden hearts, lay amid broad green leaves. The people who first got the idea in their heads that it would be nice to put some lilies in the church that week, were very young people. In fact, it came into one little head first—Kitty Grey's. And how could she help thinking up all manner of splendid plans, when she lived so near to the beautiful lake that from her window up-stairs she could look across to the other shore and see here and there white blossoms on the water. She clapped her hands with joy when she first discovered them, and ran down-stairs crying: "They're out! They're out! Mamma, can't Ray and I go in the boat and get some pond lilies right away now?" Silver Lake was a shallow little thing—a saucerful of water, papa said—and Ray, though a little fellow, could manage a boat nicely. Mamma readily gave consent, and it was but a few minutes before Kitty sat in the stern of the boat, drawing her hand through the water, her very dearest friend Mabel in the bow, and Ray rowing with all his might to the spot where those wonderful lilies floated white and fair. "I know what we'll do," Kitty said, as they filled the large basket they had brought with them as full as it could hold. "We'll trim the church for to-morrow." "So we will," said Mabel. And Ray said: "All right; that will be splendid. I'll get a lot of ferns to put with these." About that time, old Mrs. Parks was walking her garden, trimming off dead leaves and cutting flowers. She came along to a large bunch of red lilies, and clipped them off. "We haven't had any flowers in church this long time," she said to herself. "I'll just send these over. They are such handsome things, it's a pity everybody shouldn't enjoy them." So she brought them into the house, got down from the top shelf of the pantry an old blue pitcher, and putting her flowers in it, filled it with water, promising herself to take them to the parsonage between daylight and dark. "Cinthy's tasty, and she can fix them up in shape for the church," she said. Cynthia Morrow was the minister's daughter. She herself had a plan for making the little church beautiful—to smile a welcome to the Sabbath morning. Down at the end of the garden was a plot of day lilies. They belonged to her. She had put them out herself, and watched and watered them, and waited for them, and now this week they blossomed out in queenly beauty. She intended to surprise her father next morning. How pleased he would be to find his favorite flower on the pulpit desk, its pure whiteness and its rare sweetness sending up incense with the songs of praise. The next one who gathered lilies was Miss Alice Lynde. She was a young lady from New York, spending the summer with her uncle in Fairview.