Rose did not finish the sentence, for something in her husband’s expression stopped her. He had caught the quick uplifting of Annie Graham’s head,—had noted the indignant flashing of her blue eye, the kindling spot on her cheek, and glancing at George, he saw at once how Rose’s thoughtless words must have wounded her. He had seen the disgusted expression of Widow Simms, as she flounced out into the aisle, and knowing that the “boy who sawed his wood,” was her son, he felt sorry that his wife should have been so indiscreet. Still, he could not be angry at the sparkling little creature chatting so like a parrot, but he felt impelled to say: “You should not judge people by their dress or occupation. The boy who saws our wood has a heart larger than many who make far more pretensions.” Rose tried to pout at what she knew to have been intended as a reprimand, but in the excitement of the jam as they passed out of the church, she forgot it entirely, only once uttering an impatient ejaculation as some one inadvertently stepped upon her sweeping skirt, and so held her for a moment, producing the sensation which nearly every woman experiences when she feels a sudden backward pull, as if skirt and waist were parting company. With the hasty exclamation, “Who _is_ stepping on me, I’d like to know?” she turned just in time to hear Annie Graham’s politely-spoken words of apology: “I beg your pardon, madam; they push me so behind that I could not help it.” “It isn’t the least bit of matter,” returned Rose, disarmed at once of all resentment, by Annie’s lady-like manner, and the expression of the face, on which traces of tears were still lingering. “Who is that, Will?” she whispered, as they emerged into the moonlight, and George Graham’s tall form was plainly discernible, together with that of his wife. Will told her who it was, and Rose rejoined: “He has volunteered, I ’most know. Poor, isn’t he?” “Not very rich, most certainly,” was Mr. Mather’s reply. “Then I guess he’s going to the war,” was Rose’s mental comment, as if poverty were the sole accomplishment necessary for a soldier to possess, a conclusion to which older and wiser heads than hers seemed at one time to have arrived. Annie Graham heard both question and answer, and with emotions not particularly pleasant she whispered to herself: “Rose Mather shall see that one man at least will not go, even if he is a mechanic and poor!” and clinging closer to George’s arm, she walked on in silence, thinking bitter thoughts of the little lady, who, delighted with having _Will_ on one side of her, and Mr. Wentworth, his partner, on the other, tripped gaily on, laughing as lightly as if on the country’s horizon there were no dark, threatening cloud, which might yet overshadow her in its gloomy folds, and leave her heart as desolate as that of the Widow Simms, or the wailing mother of Harry and Bill. CHAPTER II. ROSE AND ANNIE.