I had not been many weeks in the house before I found Sunday was no day of rest to my employers, and yet they were better than many other worldly people. Mrs. Morton always went to church in the morning, and, unless he was too tired or busy, Mr. Morton went too. They were careful, too, that their servants should enjoy as far as possible the privilege of the day. The carriage was never used, so the horses and the coachman were able to rest. They dined an hour earlier, and invited only one or two intimate friends to join them, and there was always sacred music in the evening. But there was no more leisure for thought on that day than on any other. In the afternoon Mr. Morton wrote his letters and read his paper, and Mrs. Morton had her share of correspondence; the rest of the afternoon was given to callers, or Mrs. Morton accompanied her husband for a walk in the park. She was always very careful of her toilet on these occasions, and if it were Travers’s Sunday out, my services were in requisition. I had once offered to assist her, and I suppose I had given satisfaction. More than once Mr. Morton had found fault with some part of her dress, and she had gone back to her dressing-room with the utmost promptitude to change it. “I have not satisfied my husband’s taste, Merle,” she would say, as cheerfully as possible; “will you help me to do better?” And she would stand before the glass with such a tired look on her lovely face, as I brought her a fresh mantle and bonnet. I hate men to be over critical with their wives, but I suppose it is a greater compliment than not being able to see if they are wearing their best or common bonnet. I confess it must be trying to a woman when a man says—and how often he does say it?—“What a pretty gown that is, my dear. Have I seen it before?” when the aggravating creature must know that she wore it all last summer, and perhaps the previous summer too. I found out that Mrs. Morton was ill-satisfied with the way they spent Sundays. I remember one Sunday evening I was sitting in the twilight with Reggie on my lap and Joyce on her little stool beside me. I had been teaching her a new verse of her hymn, and she had learned to say it very prettily. We were both very busy over it, when the door opened, and Mrs. Morton came in. Joyce jumped up and ran to her at once. “I know it, mother—my Sunday hymn—it is such a pretty one.” “Is it, my darling? Then, suppose you let mother hear it.” And Joyce, folding her hands in her quaint, old-fashioned way, began very readily: “I love to hear the story Which angel voices tell, How once the King of Glory Came down on earth to dwell. I am both weak and sinful, But this I surely know, The Lord came down to save me, Because He loved me so.” “Very pretty indeed, Joyce,” observed Mrs. Morton, rather absently, when the child had finished. But Joyce looked up in her face wistfully. “Do you ever say hymns, mother dear?”