But that was for to-morrow when Katy came; to-night she only wore a dotted brown, whose hem just reached the top of her "bootees," as she stood by the window, wondering, first, if the rain would ever stop, and wondering, secondly, where all them fish worms, squirming on the grass by the back door, did come from. Needn't tell her they crawled out of the ground; she knew better--they rained from the clouds, though she should s'pose that somebody would sometime have catched one on their bunnet or umberill. Dammed if she didn't mean to stand out o' doors some day till she was wet to the skin, and see what would come, and having thus settled a way by which to decide the only question, except that of the "'Piscopal Church and its quirks," on which she was still obstinate, Aunt Betsy went to strain the milk just brought by Uncle Ephraim, while Helen took her position near the window, looking drearily out upon the leaden clouds, and hoping it would brighten before the morrow. Like the others, Helen had read Katy's letter many times, dwelling longest upon the part which said: "I have been so bad, so frivolous and wicked here at Newport, that it will be a relief to make you my confessor, depending, as I do, upon your love to grant me absolution." From a family at Silverton, who had spent a few days at a private house in Newport, Helen had heard something of her sister's life; the lady had seen her once driving a tandem team, or as Aunt Betsy had it, "driving tanterum," down the avenue, with Wilford at her side giving her instructions. Since then there had been some anxiety felt for her at the farmhouse, and more than Dr. Grant had prayed that she might be kept unspotted from the world; but when her letter came, so full of love and self-reproaches, the burden was lifted, and there was nothing to mar the anticipations of the events for which they had made so many preparations, Uncle Ephraim going to the expense of buying at auction a half-worn, covered buggy, which he fancied would suit Katy better than the corn-colored wagon in which Katy used to ride. To pay for this the deacon had parted with the money set aside for the "greatcoat" he so much needed for the coming winter, his old gray one having done him service for fifteen years. But his comfort was nothing compared with Katy's happiness, and so, with his wrinkled face beaming with delight, he had brought home his buggy, which he designated a carriage, putting it carefully in the barn, and saying no one should ride in it till Katy came, the corn-color was good enough for them, but Katy was different--Katy was Mrs. Cameron, and used to something better. With untiring patience the old man mended up his harness, for what he had heard of Katy's driving had impressed him strongly with her powers of horsemanship, and, truth to tell, raised her somewhat in his respect. Could he have afforded it Uncle Ephraim in his younger days would have