It was a lovely autumn day; the sun shone, the birds twittered, the air seemed full of sweet sounds, and everything looked as bright and happy as if such things as frost and cold and winter winds did not exist--as if summer were perpetual. “Oh, Charley, isn’t it lovely?” cried Winifred with clasped hands and flushed cheeks. “Isn’t it just a perfect Sunday morning? I think it feels as if everything knew it was Sunday, birds and flowers and everything. Do you think they do?” “I don’t know, Winnie,” answered Charley; but he did not laugh at her fancy. Winifred thought a little, and by-and-by she said: “Do you think it is always Sunday in heaven Charley?” “I don’t know, Winnie; what makes you think about heaven?” “I often think about it now, and to-day it just seems as if everything was like heaven. I wonder if it will always be Sunday there?” Charley made no answer. “I suppose it will, because, you see, Sunday is God’s day, and in heaven all days will be God’s, won’t they?” “I suppose so.” Winifred pursued the thought a little farther, and then added thoughtfully: “Every day ought to be God’s day here, too, Charley, I think, only we don’t remember to make them so.” “We couldn’t do with Sundays all the week, Winnie,” answered the boy. “The work would never get done at that rate.” “I don’t quite mean _that_,” said Winnie smiling. “It would not be right to do no work. God would not like that at all; but it would be nice if all days seemed to belong to Him alike--working Sundays and resting Sundays. I’ve heard people say that lots of men and women never think about God, or about being good all the week, and think it’s quite enough to go to church on Sunday. I don’t think God can like that kind of Sunday-keeping.” Charley was silent. He was conscious that he had been rather after this way of thinking himself--keeping his few thoughts of God and of heaven and holy things for Sunday use, and putting them quite out of his head during the busy week with its many pleasures and occupations. Was Winifred right in her theory? Ought every day to have its share of serious thought and prayer? “It would not be very easy to work such a plan as that, Winnie.” “Why not?” “Why because--because. Oh, don’t you know, it’s so hard to remember about God always. I suppose it’s wrong; but I don’t feel as if I could keep it up, if I was to try and make every day a kind of Sunday. We can’t always be thinking of one thing.” “No, I know we can’t, we can’t always be _thinking_ exactly; but we can always be loving, you know,” answered Winnie earnestly. “We are not always thinking about papa and mamma; but we always love them, and we try every day to do as they wish, not to break rules, and not to vex them.” “Ah yes, that is different.” “Is it?” “Well, it seems different to me.”