"They were," said Ann. "The books they read and the wideness of their interests put me to shame. You know, Mother, it must have been very interesting for them, for they found their whole social life in the church. What fun they had at the social meetings! I almost envied them. At one social a girl said to me that she wished the men would come up--I suppose they were talking and smoking in the lower hall--and I said, stupidly, that I thought it was nicer without the men, and the girl replied with some sagacity, 'you wouldn't say that if they were your own kind of men.' A church is a great matchmaker. Old Mrs. Buchanan, talking one day of the young men and maidens in the choir, said, 'They pair _just like doos_.' There is one good thing about a small congregation--everybody knows everybody else. We were like one big family. It is touching to hear them talk now about those days; they look back on them as a sort of Golden Age. And the presents they gave us! And they were so poor. Each of the boys got a gold watch and chain when they left home, and when I went to India I had quite a collection of keepsakes, some very odd, but all greatly valued by me, their owner. Mother, why are you sitting 'horn idle,' as Marget would say? Have you finished your knitting?" Mrs. Douglas looked at her idle hands. "My knitting is like Penelope's web," she said; "there is no end to it. I'm simply sitting idle for a change, sitting thinking about days that are past, and about people I shall never see again on this side of time. I think a great deal of Martyrs, and I feel very humble when I think of the affection and loyalty given to us." "But, Mother, you can't have liked everybody in the church. The thing's not possible. Think of Mr. Philip Scott and the 'acid' he thinks necessary, and say something really unkind.... You know you never liked Mrs. Marshall, the elder's wife--she was a terrible tale-bearer, and always making mischief." "Yes, she was, poor body. But, Ann, she was kind when Rosamund was ill, and----" Ann threw up her hands. "Mother, you are hopeless. I'm not going to try to put any acid into you. You're just like strawberry jam. I'm afraid I've got your share of acid as well as my own, that's why I've such an 'ill-scrapit tongue.'" But Mrs. Douglas wasn't listening. She was looking before her, dreaming. Presently she said: