"You wouldn't take baby from me would you, John?" said she appealingly, nestling the precious bundle closer to her heart than before, as if in apprehension. No I wouldn't. I was obliged to confess that, to myself if not to her. "John," said Jennie, "Mrs Goodsole has been here this afternoon. She wants to know if we won't take our letters to this church the next communion. It is the first of September." "Well?" said I, for Jennie had stopped. "She says that if we are going to make Wheathedge our home she hopes we can find a pleasant home in the church here. I told her I could not tell, we had only hired the house for the summer and might leave in the fall. But if you have bought it, John, and I am, oh! so glad you have and thank you so much"--one hand left the baby gently, and was laid on my arm with the softest possible pressure by way of emphasizing the thanks again,--"perhaps we ought to consider it." "I have no notion of joining this church," said I. "It's in debt, and always behind hand. I am told they owe a hundred dollars to their minister now." "That's too bad," said Jennie. "And we can't do much if we do join it. I have no time for church affairs, and you--you have all you can do to attend to your infant class at home, Jennie." "That's true," said Jennie. "Besides it is a Presbyterian church and we are Congregationalists." Jennie made no reply. "And I can't bear the idea of leaving the Broadway Tabernacle church. I was brought up in it. I have been in its Sunday-School ever since I can recollect. It was dear to me in its old homely attire as a Congregationalist meeting-house. It is dear to me in its new aristocratic attire as a Congregationalist cathedral. And Harry was baptized there. And there are all our dearest and best friends. It would be like pulling a tooth to uproot from it." "It is dear to me too, John," said Jennie softly, "for your sake, if not for my own." "And all our friends are there, Jennie," continued I. "Except the Lines and Deacon Goodsole we hardly know anybody here." "Though I suppose time will cure that," said Jennie. "I do not know that I care to cure it," said I. Jennie made no response. Was it not at Bunker Hill that the soldiers were directed to reserve their fire till the attacking party had exhausted theirs? That is the way Jennie conducts an argument--when she argues at all, which is very seldom. She accepted every consideration I had offered against uniting with the Wheathedge church, and yet I knew her opinion was not changed; and somehow my own began to waver. I wonder how that method of arguing would work in the court-room. I mean to try it some time. I had exhausted my fire and Jennie was still silent. Silence they say means consent. But I knew that it did not in her case. It depends so much upon the kind of silence. "What do you say Jennie?" said I.