An afternoon with Marion Kenney was to the old woman, who never read stories, what a volume of short stories is to other people; stories, humorous, pathetic, and always with a touch of the best in life. And, somehow, the best found an answering chord in something in Aunt Rody. But for that something nobody could have lived in the house with Aunt Rody. The door across the hall was open; all was quiet within the small bedroom. For the world Aunt Rody would not acknowledge any weakness by bringing her chair into Affy’s room, or even into the entry. She was not fond of company; and all Bensalem knew it. Cephas asked her years ago if she wanted to be buried in a corner of the graveyard all by herself and the brambles. “Heaven is a sociable place, Rody, and you might as well get used to it.” Aunt Affy’s story was done, there was no sound in the other bedroom; Judith picked among her colored strips. “I had a letter from my cousin Don last night, Miss Marion,” said Judith, “and he said he was glad I loved the parsonage.” “Did he?” asked Marion, twisting one of Judith’s curls about her finger. “O, Judith, I know you want me to tell you a story,” she said hastily, as Aunt Affy slipped on her glasses again and took the coat sleeve into her hand. To Marion that coat sleeve was a part of Aunt Affy’s “new Bible.” “Oh, yes,” replied Judith, with pure delight. “Judith would have enjoyed the age of tradition,” said Aunt Affy; “just think,” in her voice of young enthusiasm, “instead of reading it, what it would be to hear from Andrew’s own lips the story of that day.” “We are living there now,” said Marion; “I am. The title of my life just now is ‘The Parsonage story of Village Life.’ But the story I want to tell Judith to-day is an episode in my own life. Seven years ago. I haven’t even told Roger yet, and I tell him everything. I think I never told any one before. I used to be at the head of things in those days; father was often away, and the children were all younger, except Roger, and mother wasn’t strong. We lived in an old house in a broad city street, away back, with a box-bordered yard in front, and lilacs, and old-fashioned things behind; we were all born there, even Roger, the eldest, and our only moving times was in the spring and fall cleaning. Once a friend of mine moved, and I was enough in the moving times to be there at an impromptu dinner; we stood around a pine table in the kitchen, or sat on anything we could find, a firkin, or peach basket turned upside down, and they let me eat a piece of pie in my fingers. All I wanted was to do something just like it myself. And when mother said I might stay all my birthday week and help Aunt Bessie move, I thought my ship had come in, laden with moving times. “Aunt Bessie lived in the city in a beautiful home, but something had happened that summer; Uncle Frank was in Europe and could not come home, and Aunt Bessie and the children had to go into the country for a year.