"Well, it was Queen's Chapel for a few years. This was its name when Washington attended service here. But in 1791, when the parish was re-organized, the new church was known as 'St. John's.'" The girls made the most of the short time they had to spend at the old church. There were a number of things to see, but nothing, not even the famous Queen Caroline chairs interested Martine more than the old bell in the tower. For Cousin Mary told her that it had been brought from an old church at Louisburg by Sir William Pepperell's victorious men. "I must come down some Sunday," she said, "just to hear it. In Nova Scotia they tell some weird stories about these old French bells," and as she spoke, Martine recalled her afternoon with Balfour and Amy near the site of the Acadian church. "You certainly must spend a day or two with me soon," said Cousin Mary, and when the girls bade her good-bye, the day was set for a longer visit from Clare and Martine. A slight fog overtook them as they rode home, and this, perhaps, lowered Martine's spirits. Had Clare known Martine longer, she would have been even more surprised than she was at her friend's despondent tone, for those who knew her best had seldom seen her out of spirits. It was Clare herself, however, who had turned the conversation in a direction not exactly enlivening. "I suppose we shall see Herbert to-morrow," she said. "He won't be exactly pleased when he hears about Carlotta's luncheon." "You mean my being left out? Oh, he won't care. Boys never take up those things. Besides, I hope no one will tell him. Besides, I shouldn't have cared if it hadn't been for Mrs. Dundonald, though I shall probably have a chance to meet her again, somewhere." "Of course," responded Clare, "she is likely to be in Boston, and you know so many people. I think you have been very amiable about the whole thing. For certainly it was hard to bear." Now sympathy is often the last straw to break one down, and as she replied to Clare, Martine did not control a little quaver in her voice. "Naturally no one likes to be slighted, but then nothing has gone exactly right this summer. I have hardly done a thing I wanted to, and I have been left out of things I might have gone to." "But, my dear, I have heard you say over and over again that you wouldn't have any gayety on account of your father and--" "Yes, that is true," replied Martine, undisturbed by her own inconsistency, "but all the same it isn't pleasant to be left out, and I really don't like being economical, although I have to pretend I don't mind. I suppose that's why some people slight me. I never believed before that money made any difference, but now I know." "Martine," said Clare, "you are ridiculous. I believe you have been working too hard, and so are a little run down." "I haven't slept well lately," Martine admitted, "I have been thinking so much about my father and Lucian." "Isn't your father improving?"