“It isn’t in the least true of me,” he said, frowning, and looking so displeased that Margaret was almost sorry she had spoken. “I would not, for anything, have you to suppose me an irreligious man, for it is not true, and I never even called myself a Unitarian. On the contrary, I was wishing a little while ago that I could go with you to church, so that you and I might keep this day holy together.” “Do,” said Margaret, earnestly. “I have seen that you do not very often go. Go with us to-day, and make a resolve for better things in future. You would be so wise to do it.” “I don’t think I will go this morning,” he said; “Eugenia has not room for me in the coupé. But will you let me take you to-night? We will walk, perhaps, if it remains fine, and the music will be lovely. Perhaps, if we’re lucky, they will get some good voice to sing the _Cantique de Noël_.” “I love that so dearly,” Margaret said. “I shall be delighted to go with you.” A little sigh rose, as she spoke. This was one of Charley Somers’ favorites; she had taken pains to see that he sang it correctly, and his voice was trained to it beautifully. Her reflections were cut short by the appearance of Mrs. Gaston, who swept down the steps, elaborately arrayed in furs and velvets, and signified her readiness to set out. Louis helped them into the carriage, and then turned away, saying he was going for a long walk. There was a look of gravity on his face that Margaret found herself recalling long afterward. The weather continued fine, and it proved quite mild enough for Louis and Margaret to walk to church in the evening. As they took their way along the gayly lighted streets, the young man turned suddenly and, looking down into her face, said: “Do you know, I found a little pressed flower in my Hymnal, when I opened it this morning. Am I to keep it or return it to you?” They were just under a gas-light, and Margaret, though she would not drop her eyes under his searching gaze, felt that she looked confused, as she said: “No; you must give that back to me. I had forgotten it.” It was a little flower that Charley Somers had put in there one evening, and she had never happened to remove it. Mr. Gaston put his hand into his pocket and took out the book. It opened easily at the place, and he removed the flower, which was run into a little slit, and handed it to her as they entered the church vestibule. “There were some initials under it,” he said. “Oh, you can just rub those out. It doesn’t matter,” said Margaret, as she took the flower. She was about to crush and throw it from her, when a pang of pity for poor Charley checked her; so she opened her own Prayer-book and hurriedly slipped it among the leaves.