"Not me," answered Ethan; "it's too fine a day to waste in church." "Just what I think," said Julia, wistfully. How bewitchingly pretty she looked in her field-flower hat and leaf-green gown! Val felt dowdy and dull in her mourning; it was an insult to the fair summer weather to go about in such clothes. No wonder cousin Ethan had brightened as he looked at Julia. They were all walking on together now to the Otways' gate. Val breathed a silent prayer of thankfulness that Julia was a Presbyterian. "What are you going to do, Mr. Gano, if you don't go to church?" asked Miss Otway, leaning across Val, who walked in the middle. "Find a comfortable place under a tree." "And read that very un-Biblical-looking book?" They were at the gate now, which Ethan opened; but Julia lingered, in spite of Val's "Heavens! is that the church-bell?" "Mightn't it pass for a hymnal?" He laid the book open on the top of the gate, very willing to prolong the interview, as it seemed, in spite of Val's disingenuous interjection, "I'm afraid I'll be late." "Too cheerful for a hymnal," said Julia, shaking her head and smiling up into his eyes. "Cheerful only on the outside, I'll be bound," said Val, suspiciously. Then turning to the title-page: "'An Anthology collected by--' What makes you like reading poetry?" "Why, don't you?" said Ethan to them both. "Yes, indeed," responded Julia. "Not a bit," said Val. "Why not?" laughed Ethan. "Too sad," said Val, firmly. Julia looked pensively away from Ethan up to the blue sky, over the line of hills. "I love sad things," she said, sympathetically. "Oh yes, _you_ like 'em blubbery. I don't. That's why I hate poetry. It's all sobbing and groaning, and 'Oh!' and 'Alas!' or else the silly scenery." "Oh, not all," said Ethan. "Well, most of it is. Now, see! I'll shut the book and open it at random: "'O star, of which I lost have all the light, With hertë sore well ought I to bewail, That ever dark in torment, night by night, Towards my death with wind in stern I sail.' That's Mr. Chaucer. Now try again: "'My days are in the yellow leaf; The flowers and fruits of love are gone; The worm, the canker, and the grief Are mine alone!' That cheerful gentleman is Lord Byron!" She shut the book with a vicious snap and opened it again: "'Out of the day and night A joy has taken flight: Fresh spring, and summer, and winter hoar, Move my faint heart with grief, but with delight No more--O, never more!' That's Shelley's account of things. And here's Keats's: "'The weariness, the fever, and the fret Here, where men sit and hear each other groan; Where but to think is to be full of sorrow And leaden-eyed despairs.'" "Oh, but aren't there any ballads and pretty stories?" asked Julia.