"That is true," said Miss Vesta. "Which bowl shall we use for the wine jelly, Sister Phoebe? I think the color shows best in this plain one with the gold stars; or do you prefer the heavy fluted one?" The little lady was perched on the pantry-steps, and looked anxiously down at Miss Phoebe, who, comfortably seated, on account of her rheumatism, was vainly endeavoring to find a speck of dust on cup or dish. "The star-bowl is best, I am convinced," said Miss Phoebe, gravely; then she sighed. "I sometimes fear that cut glass is a snare, Vesta. The pride of the eye! I tremble, when I look at all these dishes." "Surely, Sister Phoebe," said Miss Vesta, gently, "there can be no harm in admiring beautiful things. The Lord gave us the sense of beauty, and I have always counted it one of his choicest mercies." "Yes, Vesta; but Satan is full of wiles. I have not your disposition, and when I look at these shelves I am distinctly conscious that there is no such glass in Elmerton, perhaps none in the State. In china Aunt Marcia surpasses us,--naturally, having all the Tree china, and most of the Darracott; I have always felt that we have less Darracott china than is ours by right,--but in glass we stand alone. At times I feel that it may be my duty to give away, or sell for the benefit of the heathen, all save the few pieces which we actually need." "Surely, Sister Phoebe, you would not do that!" said Miss Vesta, aghast. "Think of all the associations! Four generations of cut glass!" "No, Vesta, I would not," said Miss Phoebe, sadly; "and that shows the snare plainly, and my feet in it. We are perishable clay! Suppose we put the cream in the gold-ribbed glass pitcher to-night, instead of the silver one; it will go better with the gold-sprigged cups. After all, for whom should we display our choicest possessions if not for our pastor?" Little Mr. Bliss, the new minister, was not observant, and beyond a vague sense of comfort and pleasure, knew nothing of the exquisite features of Miss Phoebe's tea-table. His wife did, however, and as she said afterward, felt better every time the delicate porcelain of her teacup touched her lips. Mrs. Bliss had the tastes of a duchess, and was beginning life on a salary of five hundred dollars a year and a house. Doctor Stedman and Mr. Homer Hollopeter, too, appreciated the dainty service of the Temple of Vesta, each in his own way; and a pleasant cheerfulness shone in the faces of all as Diploma Crotty handed round her incomparable Sally Lunns, with a muttered assurance to each guest that she did not expect they were fit to eat. "Phoebe," said Doctor Stedman, "I never can feel more than ten years old when I sit down at this table. I hope you have put me--yes, this is my place. Here is the mark. You set this table, Vesta?" Miss Vesta blushed, the blush of a white rose at sunset. "Yes, James," she said, softly. "I remembered where you like to sit."