Then before her prayer was completed, the congregation had stood up to sing, and she had met the eyes of Jason Greylock over the row of humble heads and proud voices. He was sitting in the Ellgood pew, and of course it was natural that he should have gone home with the Ellgoods to dinner. It was, she repeated sternly, perfectly natural. It was perfectly natural also that he should have forgotten that he had told her to beg, borrow, or steal a blue dress. In the few minutes when he had stopped to shake hands with her father and mother in the porch of the church, he had turned to her and asked, "How did you know that you ought to wear blue?" Yes, that, like everything else that had happened, was perfectly natural. For the last few weeks he had driven her to the store and back every day; he had appeared to have no happiness except in the hours that he spent with her; he had spoken to her, he had looked at her, as if he loved her; yet, she repeated obstinately, it was natural that he should be different on Sunday. Everything had always been different on Sunday. Since her childhood it had seemed to her that the movement of all laws, even natural ones, was either suspended or accelerated on the Sabbath. She was thinking of this when the door opened, and Mrs. Oakley, who had resumed her ordinary clothes without disturbing her consecrated expression, thrust her head into the room. "I've looked everywhere for you, Dorinda. Are you sick?" "No, I'm not sick." "Has Rufus been teasing you?" "No." "Has anybody said anything to hurt your feelings? Josiah is grouchy; but you mustn't mind what he says." "Oh, no. He hasn't been any worse than usual. There isn't anything the matter, Ma." "I noticed you didn't half eat your dinner, and your father kind of thought somebody had hurt your feelings." Closing the door behind her, Mrs. Oakley crossed the room and sat down near her daughter in the best mahogany rocker. Then, observing that she had disarranged the fall of the purple calico flounce, she rose and adjusted the slip cover. While she was still on her feet, she went over to the bed and shook the large feather pillows into shape. After that, before sitting down again, she stood for a few moments with her stern gaze wandering about the room, as if she were seeking more dirt to conquer. But such things did not worry her. They drifted like straws on the surface of her mind, while her immortal spirit was preoccupied with a profound and incurable melancholy. "I hope you ain't upset in your mind, daughter," she said abruptly. Dorinda turned her lucid gaze on her mother. "Ma, whatever made you marry Pa?" she asked bluntly.