Fanny, oppressed by the gloom within doors, crept out into the warm sunshine, and seating herself under a tree in the yard, was looking at a few clover blossoms which she had plucked beside her. She was thinking of the pleasant Sundays she had passed with her dear grandmother, and how she used to sit on the door-step of the cottage, and tell her how God taught the little birds to build their cradle nests, and find their way through the air; and how He provided even for the little ants, who so patiently, grain by grain, built their houses in the gravel walk; and how He kept the grass green with the dew and showers, and ripened the fruit, and opened the blossoms with the warm sunshine, and how He was always watching over us, caring for our wants, listening to our cries, pitying us for our sorrows, and making His sun to shine even on those who forget to thank Him for it. But see--Fanny has dropped her clover blossoms, for Mrs. Quip has seized her by the arm, and says, “You wicked child, you! To think of picking a flower _Sunday_! What do you expect will become of you when you die? What do you think the neighbors will think? Sinful child! There”--slamming her down on a cricket in the sitting-room--“sit down, and see if you can learn what the chief end of man is, afore meeting time. Flowers of a _Sunday_! or flowers any day, for the matter of that, I never could see the sense of ’em. Even the Bible says, ‘they toil not, neither do they spin.’ Gracious goodness--Sewsan Quip, Mrs. Snow’s kerriage has just started for meetin’. Get your things, all of you. Sewsan, see to that peddler’s child; mind that she don’t take no flowers to the Lord’s temple; John Quip, you shan’t wear them gloves; they cost twenty-five cents at the finding-store; and if you think that I bought ’em for you to drive in, you are mistaken; now put ’em in your pocket till you get into the meetin’-us porch; that will save ’em a sight; them leather reins will wear ’em all threadbare in less than no time. Mercy on us, the string is off my bunnet. Sewsan, that’s your doing. Run and bring me a pin off the third shelf in the buttery, under the yellow quart bowl. I picked it up and put it there this morning. Make haste, now. John Quip, stop cracking your whip that way on the holy Sabbath day. What do you suppose your dead grandpa would think, if he should hear it?”