I climbed the long hill back of the Ark, descended, and walked along the bank of the river. It was a beautiful morning. The air was--everything that could be desired in the way of air, but I felt a desperate need of something more substantial. Standing alone with nature, on the bank of the lovely liver, I thought, with tears in my eyes, of the delicious breakfast already recuperating the exhausted energies of my far-away home friends. When I got back to the house, Mrs. Philander, in simple and unaffected attire, was bustling busily about the stove. The snores from Grandma and Grandpa's quarter had ceased, signifying that they, also, had advanced a stage in the grand processes of Sunday morning. The children came teasing me to dress them, so I fastened for them a variety of small articles which I flattered myself on having combined in a very ingenious and artistic manner, though I believe those infant Keelers went weeping to Grandma afterwards, and were remodeled by her all-comforting hand with much skill and patience. In the midst of her preparations for breakfast, Madeline abruptly assumed her hat and shawl, and was seen from the window, walking leisurely across the fields in the direction of the woods. She returned in due time, bearing an armful of fresh evergreens, which she twisted around the family register. When the ancient couple made their appearance, I remarked silently, in regard to Grandma Keeler's hair, what proved afterward to be its usual holiday morning arrangement. It was confined in six infinitesimal braids which appeared to be sprouting out, perpendicularly, in all directions from her head. The effect of redundancy and expansiveness thus heightened and increased on Grandma's features was striking in the extreme. While we were eating breakfast, that good soul observed to Grandpa Keeler: "Wall, pa, I suppose you'll be all ready when the time comes to take teacher and me over to West Wallen to Sunday school, won't ye?" Grandpa coughed, and coughed again, and raised his eyes helplessly to the window. "Looks some like showers," said he. "A-hem! ahem! Looks mightily to me like showers, over yonder." "Thar', r'aly, husband! I must say I feel mortified for ye," said Grandma. "Seein' as you're a professor, too, and thar' ain't been a single Sunday mornin' since I've lived with ye, pa, summer or winter, but what you've seen showers, and it r'aly seems to me it's dreadful inconsistent when thar' ain't no cloud in the sky, and don't look no more like rain than I do." And Grandma's face, in spite of her reproachful tones, was, above all, blandly sunlike and expressive of anything rather than deluge and watery disaster. Grandpa was silent a little while, then coughed again I had never seen Grandpa in worse straits. "A-hem! a-hem! 'Fanny' seems to be a little lame, this mornin'," said he. "I shouldn't wonder. She's been goin' pretty stiddy this week."