“Well, I'm sure I'VE done all that _I_ could,” piped the widow, with a meek, martyred air. She was always martyred. She considered it an appropriate attitude for a widow. “He can't blame ME if the choir is out of key to-morrow.” “Mercy me!” interrupted the spinster, “if there isn't Julia Strong a-leaning right out of that window a-looking at the circus, and her pa a deacon of the church, and this the house of the pastor. It's shocking! I must go to her.” “Ma, let me see, too,” begged Willie, as he tugged at his mother's skirts. Mrs. Willoughby hesitated. Miss Perkins was certainly taking a long while for her argument with Julia. The glow from the red powder outside the window was positively alarming. “Dear me!” she said, “I wonder if there can be a fire.” And with this pretext for investigation, she, too, joined the little group at the window. A few moments later when Douglas entered for a fresh supply of paper, the backs of the company were toward him. He crossed to the study table without disturbing his visitors, and smiled to himself at the eager way in which they were hanging out of the window. Douglas was a sturdy young man of eight and twenty, frank and boyish in manner, confident and light-hearted in spirit. He had seemed too young to the deacons when he was appointed to their church, and his keen enjoyment of outdoor games and other healthful sports robbed him of a certain dignity in their eyes. Some of the women of the congregation had been inclined to side with the deacons, for it hurt their vanity that the pastor found so many other interests when he might have been sitting in dark, stuffy rooms discussing theology with them; but Douglas had been either unconscious of or indifferent to their resentment, and had gone on his way with a cheery nod and an unconquerable conviction of right, that had only left them floundering. He intended to quit the room now unnoticed, but was unfortunate enough to upset a chair as he turned from the table. This brought a chorus of exclamations from the women, who chattering rushed quickly toward him. “What do you think of my naughty boy, Willie?” simpered the widow. “He dragged me quite to the window.” Douglas glanced amusedly first at the five-foot-six widow and then at the helpless, red-haired urchin by her side, but he made no comment beyond offering a chair to each of the women. “Our choir practice had to be entirely discontinued,” declared Miss Perkins sourly, as she accepted the proffered chair, adjusted her skirts for a stay, and glanced defiantly at the parson, who had dutifully seated himself near the table. “I am sure _I_ have as true an ear as anybody,” whimpered the widow, with an injured air; “but I defy ANY ONE to lead 'What Shall the Harvest Be?' to an accompaniment like THAT.” She jerked her hand in the direction of the window. The band was again playing the “hoochie coochie.”