“I'm glad he's begun to take a little care of his appearance at last. Business men think a good deal about that, these days, when he comes to make his start in the world. I'll have to take a look at him and give him a word of praise. I suppose he'll be in the pew when we get there.” But Ramsey wasn't in the pew; and Charlotte, his sister, and her husband, who were there, said they hadn't seen anything of him. It was not until the members of the family were on their way home after the services that they caught a glimpse of him. They were passing a church a little distance from their own; here the congregation was just emerging to the open, and among the sedate throng descending the broad stone steps appeared an accompanied Ramsey--and a red, red Ramsey he was when he beheld his father and mother and sister and brother-in-law staring up at him from the pavement below. They were kind enough not to come to an absolute halt, but passed slowly on, so that he was just able to avoid parading up the street in front of them. The expressions of his father, mother, and sister were of a dumfoundedness painful to bear, while such lurking jocosity as that apparent all over his brother-in-law no dignified man should either exhibit or be called upon to ignore. In hoarse whispers, Mrs. Milholland chided her husband for an exclamation he had uttered. “John! On Sunday! You ought to be ashamed.” “I couldn't help it,” he exclaimed. “Who on earth is his clinging vine? Why, she's got _lavender_ tops on her shoes and--” “Don't look round!” she warned him sharply. “Don't--” “Well, what's he doing at a Baptist church? What's he fidgeting at his handkerchief about? Why can't he walk like people? Does he think it's obligatory to walk home from church anchored arm-in-arm like Swedes on a Sunday Out? Who _is_ this cow-eyed fat girl that's got him, anyhow?” “Hush! Don't look round again, John.” “Never fear!” said her husband, having disobeyed. “They've turned off; they're crossing over to Bullard Street. Who is it?” “I think her name's Rust,” Mrs. Milholland informed him. “I don't know what her father does. She's one of the girls in his class at school.” “Well, that's just like a boy; pick out some putty-faced flirt to take to church!” “Oh, she's quite pretty--in that way!” said his wife, deprecatingly. “Of course that's the danger with public schools. It would be pleasanter if he'd taken a fancy to someone whose family belongs to our own circle.” “'Taken a fancy'!” he echoed, hooting. “Why, he's terrible! He looked like a red-gilled goldfish that's flopped itself out of the bowl. Why, he--” “I _say_ I wish if he felt that he had to take girls anywhere,” said Mrs. Milholland, with the primmest air of speaking to the point--“if this sort of thing _must_ begin, I wish he might have selected some nice girl among the daughters of our own friends, like Dora Yocum, for instance.”