"There, Jack, it's just as I told you it would be," exclaimed Mrs. Middleton, patting a pink satin bow complacently. "I said to your uncle, Elsie love, that a girl of sixteen is almost a woman--I was only seventeen when I was married--and that he could make an assistant of you right away." Her smile faded and her hand went to her heart in an affected way. "My being such a sad invalid is a terrible drag on your uncle, though he won't confess it," she added feebly. "I often and often drop a secret tear over it, I own; but now that there'll be some one to help with the little services that would naturally fall to a pastor's wife, I shall be quite content. You know how the poet says that others shall sing the song and right the wrong? 'What matter I or they?' That is how it seems to me." Mr. Middleton gazed at his wife tenderly, but Elsie's youthful scorn increased. She was not sufficiently mature to understand that it shows something of character to look on kindly while another younger, fairer person steps in to fulfil duties that should have been one's own, even though one may have repudiated them. Directly lunch was over, Elsie ran up-stairs--something she seldom had done--unfastened her trunk, took out an embroidered white linen suit and dressed quickly. She could scarcely wait until time to go to the library. She was ready to lose the train to-day, and even to-morrow if need be. At the library, she found the procedure simple and easily acquired. It was fascinating, also, as was the great airy room; and she wandered about through the stacks, and gazed at the books, magazines, pictures, maps and bulletin-board in a sort of dream. It was a warm day and no one came in during the first half-hour. Mr. Middleton had scarcely left, however, when a little girl in a scant, faded frock that was clean, however, and freshly starched, came shyly in with a book--a child of nine or ten with an anxious expression on her old, refined little face which hadn't yet lost all its baby curves. "Why, where's Miss Rachel?" she asked, the look of anxiety fading and a shy little smile appearing in its stead. Elsie explained. "Well, I think you're ever 'n' ever so much nicer, and so pretty!" said the child. Then her face clouded again as she opened the book that she held in thin little hands that were like claws. "The baby did it," she said sorrowfully as she exhibited a picture torn across. "He isn't a year old yet and don't understand. He isn't the least naughty, only _mischeevious_, you know. Ma says I ought not to have been reading it while I was minding him, but you see I'm _always_ minding him except when he's asleep--and then he wakes right up, mostly." She sighed. "Do you s'pose you can mend it?" she inquired. "Yes, indeed," returned Elsie promptly, and smiled involuntarily. The child fingered her frock. "Miss Rachel would scold," she faltered,