BRIDGET.—And _thim_. Mr. Smith was her siventh. MRS. SLOAN.—Her _what_? BRIDGET.—Her sivinth. There was eight of thim proposed to her in the wan week. MRS SLOAN.—Why, Bridget! How can you possibly know _that_? BRIDGET.—Sure, what does it mean whin a gintleman calls twice in th’ wake an’ thin stops like he was shot. An’ who is the eight’ gintleman to walk wid the corpse, Mum? MRS. SLOAN.—That is all, Bridget. And those pillow–cases look shockingly! I never _saw_ such ironing! (_Exit, hastily and sternly._) BRIDGET (_sola_).—Only siven of thim. Saints bless us! The pore lady’ll go wan–sided to her grave! SCENE.—_The Private Office of_ MR. PARKER HALL. MR. HALL _writing. To him, enter_ MR. ALECK SLOAN. MR. SLOAN.—Ah, there, Parker! MR. HALL.—Ah, there, Aleck! What brings _you_ around so late in the day? MR. SLOAN.—I just thought you might like to hear the names of the fellows Rhodora Pennington chose for her pall–bearers. (_Produces list._) MR. HALL (_sighs_).—Poor Rhodora! Too bad! Fire ahead. [Illustration] MR. SLOAN (_reads list_).—“George Lister.” MR. HALL.—_Ah!_ MR. SLOAN (_reads_).—“John Lang.” MR. HALL.—Oh! MR. SLOAN (_reads_).—“Dexter Townsend.” MR. HALL.—Well! MR. SLOAN (_reads_).—“McCullom McIntosh.” MR. HALL.—Say!— MR. SLOAN (_reads_).—“William Jans.” MR. HALL.—The Deuce! MR. SLOAN (_reads_).—“Milo Smith.” MR. HALL.—Great Cæsar’s ghost! This is getting very personal! MR. SLOAN—Yes. (_Reads, nervously._) “Alexander Sloan.” MR. HALL.—Whoo–o–o–o–up! You too? MR. SLOAN (_reads_).—“_Parker Hall._” (_A long silence._) MR. HALL (_faintly_).—Oh, lord, she rounded us up, didn’t she? Say, Parker, can’t this thing be suppressed, somehow? MR. SLOAN.—It’s in the evening paper. (_Another long silence._) MR. HALL (_desperately_).—Come out and have a bottle with me? MR. SLOAN.—I can’t. I’m going down to Bitts’s stable to buy that pony that Mrs. Sloan took such a shine to a month or so ago. MR. HALL.—If _I_ could get out of this for a pony—Oh, lord! [Illustration] THE TWO CHURCHES OF ’QUAWKET. [Illustration: “_’Read it!’ commanded Brother Joash. The minister grew pale._”] THE TWO CHURCHES OF ’QUAWKET. [Illustration] The Reverend Colton M. Pursly, of Aquawket, (commonly pronounced ’Quawket,) looked out of his study window over a remarkably pretty New England prospect, stroked his thin, grayish side–whiskers, and sighed deeply. He was a pale, sober, ill–dressed Congregationalist minister of forty–two or three. He had eyes of willow–pattern blue, a large nose, and a large mouth, with a smile of forced amiability in the corners. He _was_ amiable, perfectly amiable and innocuous—but that smile sometimes made people with a strong sense of humor want to kill him. The smile lingered even while he sighed.