“Julie! Oh, Julie, wait just a minute--I want to ask you about that crêpe waist of mine.” It was one of Julie’s customers calling to her from a porch. People were in the habit of stopping Julie as she passed along the street, no matter in how much haste she might be, to have her advice about old and decrepit clothes. Although she resented this, Julie usually meekly responded--but not this time. “Bring your waist into the shop in the morning, and I’ll attend to it,” she called back, continuing upon her way. She reached home, and unlocking her door, went into her bedroom, then depositing her bundles, removed her hat before the mirror. The face that looked at her was flushed and alive and recreated. It was not at all the haunted and forlorn little countenance that the glass had given back in the morning. Julie lingered a moment, staring at herself and wondering. She was interrupted by Mrs. Sam Wicket who entered after a preliminary knock. “You back, Julie?” she said. And after Julie had stated that she was back, “Did you speak to Winter and White’s about the stove?” she inquired. “I did,” Julie returned, “and they’ll write to you about it.” “Humph! Writin’ ain’t much good. Well, did you do that other little errand for me? I ain’t got a second to stop; my light bread’s ready to come out of the oven right this minute.” Julie fished out her especial package from the pile on the bed, and handed it over to her. “Well, I certainly do thank you for all your trouble,” Mrs. Wicket said, and was just turning away, when she paused, struck by a further thought. “Oh, there!” she exclaimed. “What I wanted to ask you last night was, how you knew Brother Seabrook called on you to pray?” “I was sitting just outside on the steps and heard him,” Julie returned simply, looking straight at her. “You--you was sitting on the steps?” “Yes,” Julie proceeded. “I slipped out because I was afraid to be called on, and after I got outside it was all so sweet and still, I just sat down there for a little bit, till I heard him ask me to lead, an’ then I came home.” “Well!” Mrs. Wicket ejaculated. She was speechless a moment. Then she burst out. “Well, I think that was the funniest thing!” “Maybe it was,” Julie interrupted her, “but anyhow I did it.” “But Julie! Sitting outside on the church steps ’cause you’re afraid to pray?” “Did you say your bread was in the oven?” Julie inquired. “Yes, my bread-rolls; yes, that’s right. I got to go.” Mrs. Wicket turned away. “But I do think that’s mighty funny, Julie,” she called back as she went down the walk. Julie shut her door and sat down in a chair. Suddenly she was extraordinarily limp and exhausted. Her anger with its glorious exaltation had evaporated, leaving her face to face with the appalling things to which it had swept her.