Matilda slipped the rustling splendor of her purple silk over her head, and went back to the limpness of her week-day calico with a sigh. When Alex came in for the milk-pail, she was standing by the stove, turning the long strips of salt pork that curled and sizzled in the skillet. Her shoulders seemed to droop a trifle more in her working-dress, but her face was flushed from the heat of the cooking. "There wasn't any call to get a warm supper for me, Tildy. I ain't hungry to speak of." "Well, I guess anyway I'd better make some milk gravy for the children; I didn't have up a fire at noon, see'n' you was away. It ain't much trouble." Her voice was resolutely cheerful, and Alex knew that the discussion was ended. But after the supper things were cleared away, she said to Mary Frances, "Can't you go and let your pa see how nice you can say your psa'm?" And the child had gone outside where Alex was sitting, and had stood with her hands behind her, her sharp little shoulders moving in unison with her sing-song as she repeated the verses. "'That man hath perfect blessedness Who walketh not astray In counsel of ungodly men, Nor stands in sinners' way, Nor sitteth in the scorner's chair: But placeth his delight Upon God's law, and meditates On his law day and night.'" The child caught her breath with a long sigh, and hurried on to the end. "'In judgment, therefore, shall not stand Such as ungodly are; Nor in th' assembly of the just Shall wicked men appear. For why? The way of godly men Unto the Lord is known; Whereas the way of wicked men Shall quite be overthrown.'" Then she stood still, waiting for her father's praise. He caught her thin little arm and drew her toward him, where she could not look into his face. "You say it very nice, Mary Frances,--very nice indeed." And Mary Frances smiled, a prim little satisfied smile, and nestled her slim body against him contentedly. II.