Judson, the curate, was approaching across the lawn. Hephzy hastily removed the lid of the teapot. “Yes,” she said, with a sigh of relief, “there's enough tea left, though you mustn't have any more, Hosy. Mr. Judson always takes three cups.” Judson was introduced and, the “between-maid” having brought another chair, he joined our party. He accepted the first of the three cups and observed. “I hope I haven't interrupted an important conversation. You appeared to be talking very earnestly.” I should have answered, but Hephzy's look of horrified expostulation warned me to be silent. Frances, although she must have seen the look, answered instead. “We were discussing Heaven,” she said, calmly. “Mr. Knowles doesn't approve of it.” Hephzy bounced on her chair. “Why!” she cried; “why, what a--why, WHAT will Mr. Judson think! Now, Frances, you know--” “That was what you said, Mr. Knowles, wasn't it. You said if Paradise was exclusively for church members you preferred--well, another locality. That was what I understood you to say.” Mr. Judson looked at me. He was a very good and very orthodox and a very young man and his feelings showed in his face. “I--I can scarcely think Mr. Knowles said that, Miss Morley,” he protested. “You must have misunderstood him.” “Oh, but I didn't misunderstand. That was what he said.” Again Mr. Judson looked at me. It seemed time for me to say something. “What I said, or meant to say, was that I doubted if the future life, the--er--pleasant part of it, was confined exclusively to--er--professed church members,” I explained. The curate's ruffled feelings were evidently not soothed by this explanation. “But--but, Mr. Knowles,” he stammered, “really, I--I am at a loss to understand your meaning. Surely you do not mean that--that--” “Of course he didn't mean that,” put in Hephzy. “What he said was that some of the ones who talk the loudest and oftenest in prayer-meetin' at our Methodist church in Bayport weren't as good as they pretended to be. And that's so, too.” Mr. Judson seemed relieved. “Oh,” he exclaimed. “Oh, yes, I quite comprehend. Methodists--er--dissenters--that is quite different--quite.” “Mr. Judson knows that no one except communicants in the Church of England are certain of happiness,” observed Frances, very gravely. Our caller turned his attention to her. He was not a joker, but I think he was a trifle suspicious. The young lady met his gaze with one of serene simplicity and, although he reddened, he returned to the charge. “I should--I should scarcely go as far as that, Miss Morley,” he said. “But I understand Mr. Knowles to refer to--er--church members; and--er--dissenters--Methodists and others--are not--are not--” “Well,” broke in Hephzibah, with decision, “I'm a Methodist, myself, and _I_ don't expect to go to perdition.” Judson's guns were spiked. He turned redder than ever and changed the subject to the weather.