"Dear me! Is Winnebago large enough to require settlement-work?" "Don't drive me so! I suppose they want to tone in with the cathedral as a special institution. 'Atmosphere,' you know. Some tracts of our great land are rather drab and vacant, remember. Color, stir,--and distinction, you understand." "Is Winnebago ritualistic?" "Not very. While I was there a young 'priest,' an offshoot from the cathedral, started up a new parish in one of the industrial outskirts. He was quite earnest and eloquent and put up a fine service; but nobody except his own father and mother went to hear him preach." Mrs. Phillips returned to the Sisterhood house. "Are they nice girls?" she asked acutely. "Oh, I guess so. I met two or three of them. Nice girls, yes; just trying to be a little different. Here's the boat-house, and some of the fellows in their rowing-clothes. Some sail-boats too." "Can you sail?" asked Amy. She had the cathedral-choir in one hand and now took the boat-club in the other. She studied both pictures intently, for both were small and crowded. "Why, I have all the theory and some of the practice. Those small inland lakes are tricky, though." "Probably no worse than ours," said Mrs. Phillips. "Do help poor Amy," she went on. "_Are_ you in either of these groups?" "No. Didn't I tell you I was trying to get away from the personal? I'm not in any of these pictures." Amy unconsciously let both half-drop, as if they held no particular interest, after all. And the hand into which the next photograph was put gave it but lukewarm welcome. Mixed in with these general subjects were several of a more personal nature: groups of twos and threes, and a number of single figures. One face and figure, as Mrs. Phillips presently came to notice, occurred again and again, in various attitudes and costumes. It was a young man of Cope's own age--or perhaps two or three years older. He was of Cope's own height, but slightly heavier, with a possible tendency to plumpness. The best of the photographs made him dark, with black, wavy hair; and in some cases (where sunlight did not distort his expression) he indulged a determined sort of smile. He figured once, all by himself, in choir vestments; again, all by himself, in rowing toggery; a third time, still by himself, in a costume whose vague inaccuracy suggested a character in amateur theatricals. "Who is this?" inquired Mrs. Phillips, with the last of these in hand. Cope was prompt, but vague. "Oh, that's a chum of mine, up there. He belongs to a dramatic club. They give 'The School for Scandal' and 'Caste,' and--well, more modern things. They have to wear all sorts of togs." "And here he is again? And here? And here?"--shuffling still another picture into view. "Yes." "He's fond of costume, isn't he?" "Very versatile," returned Cope, lightly and briefly. "Clothes to correspond." Mrs. Phillips began to peer again at the picture of the choir-group. "Isn't he here too?"