She had a reverential admiration for the rector’s wife, as a person who in that position must be superhumanly good. She longed to know her as other people did. She had been sensitively quick to feel the alteration from the conventional politeness of Mrs. Beatoun’s manner to her to the intimate interchange of laughing remarks with a party of friends afterwards. Mrs. Briarley had indeed been asked to join the Guild, but she could not get up her courage to face so many strangers alone. “No, Mrs. Beatoun will not be at the sale to-day,” said Mrs. Stebbins, rising to go. “I’ve just come from the rectory now. She had such a pleasant surprise—the present of a lovely hat from her cousin. She had to go into mourning for her mother-in-law, and so she sent this hat to Mrs. Beatoun, it was made in Paris, and I don’t believe it was ever worn more than twice. It’s a perfect beauty!” “That must have been very nice,” said Mrs. Briarley, with the thought of the hat for which she longed. “Well, I should think so! To get a hat like that without paying a cent! And if ever anybody needed one it was Mrs. Beatoun. She’s worn that old black straw for five years; but after all, you’d hardly know it. She’s got that sort of an air about her—almost too much for a clergyman’s wife, some people think—that makes you feel as if she _was_ dressed up when she isn’t. Is this your little girl?” “Yes,” said Mrs. Briarley, with the tremulous flush that always came into her cheek when little, dark-curled, lustrous-eyed Emily suddenly appeared in her dainty white frock and little slippers. She looked at her visitor with an expression which said, “Did you ever see anything as beautiful as this?” But Mrs. Stebbins only remarked, “She favours her papa, doesn’t she? I don’t see much resemblance to you,” patted the child’s head, shook hands with Mrs. Briarley, and was gone, with a parting injunction not to forget the rummage sale. Mrs. Briarley knelt down on the floor by Emily that she might gather the plump little standing form more fully into her thin young arms. She loved and respected her husband greatly, but her humble soul magnified the Lord daily for this wonder and joy of being the mother of Emily. She had a way of pressing the little soft cheek to hers, as now, and saying, “Baby _dear_,” in a tone of ineffable love, that at once embodied her bliss and a prayer that she might be worthy of it. When she left the child now she knew that there was only one path to choose. She must go without her hat. She _must_ respond to the appeal. She thought of it all the time she was selecting her slender dole of rubbish for the sale—a vase that had been mended and a couple of books. As she was walking to Herkimer Street she imagined herself in a ninety-eight-cent, ready-trimmed straw turban. One could hardly realize how earnestly solemn the sacrifice was to her.