"Lie! I suppose," screamed Dolly, putting her face very close to Rose's, as if to defy her to say the obnoxious word; "is that it." "Yes," said Rose, courageously. "Good girl--good girl" said Dolly; "shall have a medal, so it shall;" and cutting a large oval out of a bit of pasteboard, and passing a twine string through it, she hung it round her neck--"Good little Rosy-Posy--just like its conscientious mamma." "I wish I were half as good as my mamma," said Rose, with a trembling voice. "I suppose you think that Aunt Dolly is a great sinner!" said that lady. "We are all great sinners, are we not?" answered Rose. "All but little Rosy Posy;" sneered Dolly, "_she_ is perfect, only needs a pair of wings to take her straight up to heaven." "Many a true word is spoken in jest," muttered Daffy, as she waxed the end of a bit of sewing silk, behind the counter. CHAPTER XI. Mr. Clifton, the minister of Difftown village was one of those few clergymen who possessed of decided talent was yet content to labor in an humble sphere. Many of his brother clergymen had left their country parishes to become stars in cities. Some, unspoiled by the breath of applause, had laid their honors meekly at the Saviour's feet; others, inflated with pride and self-conceit, preached soft things to those who built them palaces of ease, and healed the hurt of the daughter of God's people slightly. Mr. Clifton feared the test. Appreciation is as dear to the sanctified as the unsanctified heart. It _were_ pleasant to see the heart's dear ones, fitted by nature to enjoy the refinements of life, in full possession of them; it were pleasant to have daily intercourse with the large circle of the gifted who congregate in cities--but what shall it profit a man if he gain the whole world and lose his own soul? Mr. Clifton felt that with his ardent social and impulsive temperament, his quiet village parish, with its home endearments, was most favorable to his growth in grace; and so, turning a deaf ear to the Syren voices which would have called him away, he cheerfully broke the bread of life, year after year, to his humble flock. It was Sabbath evening--Mr. Clifton lay upon the sofa, suffering under one of those torturing head-aches which excessive mental excitement was sure to bring on. He loved his calling--it was not mere lip service for him to expound the word of God, and teach its sacred truths--the humblest among his people knew this; the tremor in his voice, the moisture in his eye, told their own eloquent tale. There must have been something to enchain those whose active limbs, never still during the other days of the week from dawn till dark, could sit on those narrow seats and never droop with uneasiness or sleep. But the physical reaction was too apt to come to the delicately strung frame; and with closed eyelids, Mr. Clifton lay upon the sofa in the parlor of the little parsonage, while his wife bent over him, bathing his aching temples.