Beth’s Easter gown was white; the simplest of straight coats in a rough silk and wool, with just enough black velvet to set off its fine lines and texture. Her hat was soft and drooping white chip, with a scarf of white and gold and a single black plume. The costume brought out the childish pink and white of Beth’s skin, the blueness of her happy eyes, the pure gold of her hair, with the darkening of its future tint beginning to creep into it. “We must walk home to-day, Alida. It is necessary to show Beth the Easter parade,” said Uncle Jim. Aunt Alida laughed. “Are you sure that isn’t an excuse, like the grandfather who takes the small boy to the circus? I suspect you will like to see it yourself; it is long since we were on the avenue as part of its display,” she said. “If it proves entertaining, that won’t be a misfortune. Come, Bethie, here we are, and you are the first one out, because you are so badly in the way!” said Uncle Jim, passing Beth when the car stopped before the door of the great stone church to which the Cortlandts came each Sunday morning. The sidewalk and approach to the church were massed with people, even on the side street upon which Léon had drawn up the car. On the Fifth Avenue side the crowds extended even into the road; policemen were detailed there to prevent accidents. The side entrance was kept for pewholders; through it the Cortlandt party slowly made its way, for here, too, progress was slow. Beth caught her breath as she entered the church. The air was heavy with the scent of flowers; the beauty of the scene transported her. The light streamed dimly from the windows of many-colored glass; its rays sought and were lost in the wilderness of flowers that turned the now-familiar building into a region of heavenly enchantment for Beth. Ferns and lance-like pandanus were massed against pillars, roses above them in swaying grace. Lilies formed a second rail within the altar railing; everywhere roses and still more roses, and lilies and lilies! Beth’s eyes dilated and swam with dewy joy. “Don’t you suppose, Natalie,” she asked, under cover of the slow progress to the pew, “that when God spoke to Moses in the burning bush it was a rose-bush, burning with its own red roses?” The service was wonderful to poetical Beth. From the time she arose to her feet at the distant sound of the choir singing and the white vested choristers wound in among the flowers, singing their alleluias, till the last faint echo of their final amen came from afar, as sweet and distinct, yet illusive, as the odor of one of the roses, Beth was unconscious of all the world; she knew only the world of unearthly beauty and ideals.