"In the name of common sense, mamma," she exclaimed, "why need he disedify these country people, over whom he has some influence, by this puerile affectation? What virtue is there in that extra yard or two of cloth? He could save souls in a pea-jacket, I should think, if he were in earnest in the matter." It was rather hard on Mrs. Varian to have to bear all these criticisms. That she had to bear them came of her natural sweetness and softness, which led every one, beginning with Missy, to dictate to her. But there was something even harder than this, that fell to her share of the oblation. She had to tell Missy of something very bitter, and to endeavor to reconcile her to it. She had prepared herself for it, in many silent hours, but it is hard, always, to give pain, harder, to some natures, than to bear it. It was one evening, when Missy came to her room for her good-night kiss, that she chose. St. John had gone away to be gone two or three days, and it is probable that the hour had been settled upon for a long while. But prepared as she was, there was a tremble in her voice when she said: "Come and sit down by me for a little while. I have something to say to you," that made Missy feel, with a sharp tightening across her heart, that there was something painful coming. She sat down where the light of the lamp did not fall upon her and said, with a forced calmness, as she bent forward to do something to the fire, "Well, mamma, what is it? If you have anything to say to me, of course it must be nice." "You don't always think so, I'm afraid, my child," said her mother, with a sigh. "I wish that I might never have anything to tell you that did not give you pleasure." "Which is equivalent to telling me you have something to tell me that will give me pain. Pray don't mind it. I ought to be used to hearing things I don't like by this time, don't you think I ought?" "Most of us have to hear things that are painful, more or less often in our lives--and change is almost always painful to natures like yours, Missy." "Oh, as to that, sometimes I have felt, lately, that change would be more acceptable than anything. So don't be afraid. Perhaps you will find it will be good news, after all." "I earnestly wish so. Of this I am confident, one day you will feel it was what was best, whether it gave you pain or not at first." "Proceed, mamma, proceed! If there is anything that rasps my nerves it is to see the knife gleaming about in the folds of your dress, while I see you are trying to hide it, and I am doubtful which part of me is doomed to the stroke. Anything but suspense. What is it, who is it this time? We don't slay the slain, so it can't be St. John. You are not going to ask me to mourn him again?" "No, Missy, and I am not going to ask you to mourn at all."