"There! That's just what I said!" cried Mrs. Lawton. "Immoderate laughter on Sunday is ill-bred, and is, therefore, unsound religious conduct, which is worse than unsound opinion, which you, yourself declare to be heresy. Thank you, John, you seldom back me up so readily. Why! those girls have scarcely tasted breakfast, and there they go rushing upstairs. Oh, well, the walk is rather long to St. John's, and I suppose they wish to take their time over it!" And she settled down contentedly to her own dilly-dallying meal, while Mr. Lawton, with a very red face, silently drank his second cup of coffee. After the girls had gone churchward, and Lena was in full control of the apartment, which Mrs. Lawton always referred to till three o'clock as the breakfast-room, and afterward as the dining-room, father and mother again resorted to the porch, each occupying one of its corners. Mrs. Lawton, who prided herself upon the propriety of her attitude toward the church, sat with the prayer-book open at the lesson for the day, feeling that the bandage on her brow so fully justified her absence from the church that she was exceptionally devout in thus following the service at the correct moment, and making her responses distinctly a few times, so that she might properly impress her dangerously lax husband. Then--well, the book seemed to be a long way off--the printed words ran together, jumped apart, whirled round about, a warm haze closed softly down--she, she could not see. She slept, while over in the other corner Mr. Lawton sat by the Sunday paper that itself occupied an entire chair, and in its bulky entirety might well have required the ice-man's tongs to carry it up the hill. And in St. Johns, that church, picturesque and time-honored, that, gathering the little town about its knees, stands with it in the very centre of a hill-girdled hollow, and is in May already greenly veiled with tender ivy and young clambering rose, there sat none more devoutly attentive to the stately service than those two fair sisters from the old White house. Both were used to attracting more or less attention; therefore, when they rose for the Gospel, Sybil's "Glory be to Thee!" died away in her throat from sheer astonishment at the burning blush she saw sweeping over Dorothy's face from chin to down-bent brow. With swift, indignant eyes she searched for the cause of her sister's embarrassment, and no sooner had she found the guilty man, who stood at gaze, wrapped in what truly seemed unconscious admiration for that sweet face, than she gave a violent start of recognition; then, with sharp question in her eye, turned back to Dorothy, to find that blush even hotter, redder than it was before, and knew instinctively that she, too, had recognized the grave young man of the city car--he who had frustrated Mr. Bulkley's plan; and with a sudden swelling of the throat the conviction came to her that these two had fallen in love at