"Indeed, it is!" Aunt Bell broke in--this time effectually, for she proceeded to relate of one Morris Upton Eversley a catalogue of inelegancies that, if authoritative, left him, considered as a husband, undesirable, not to say impracticable. His demerits, indeed, served to bring the meal to a blithe and chatty close. Aunt Bell's practice each day after luncheon was, in her own terminology, to "go into the silence and concentrate upon the thought of the All-Good." She was recalled from the psychic state on this afternoon, though happily not before a good half-hour, by Nancy's knock at her door. She came in, cheerful, a small sheaf of papers in her hand. Aunt Bell, finding herself restored and amiable, sat up to listen. Nancy threw herself on the couch, with the air of a woman about to chat confidentially from the softness of many gay pillows, dropping into the attitude of tranquil relaxation that may yet bristle with eager mental quills. "The drollest thing, Aunt Bell! This morning instead of hearing Allan, I went up to that trunk-room and rummaged through the chest that has all those old papers and things of Grandfather Delcher's. And would you believe it? For an hour or more there, I was reading bits of his old sermons." "But he was a Presbyterian!" In her tone and inflection Aunt Bell ably conveyed an exposition of the old gentleman's impossibility--lucidly allotting him to spiritual fellowship with the head-hunters of Borneo. "I know it, but, Aunt Bell, those old sermons really did me good; all full of fire they were, too, but you felt a _man_ back of them--a good man, a real man. You liked him, and it didn't matter that his terminology was at times a little eccentric. Grandfather's theology fitted the last days of his life about as crinoline and hoop-skirts would fit over there on the avenue to-day--but he always made me feel religious. It seemed sweet and good to be a Christian when he talked. With all his antiquated beliefs he never made me doubt as--as I doubt to-day. But it was another thing I wanted to show you--something I found--some old compositions of Bernal's that his grandfather must have kept. Here's one about birds--'jingle-birds, squeak-birds and clatter-birds.' No?--you wouldn't care for that?--well--listen to this." She read the youthful Bernal's effort to rehabilitate the much-blemished reputation of Judas--a paper that had been curiously preserved by the old man. "Poor Judas, indeed!" The novelty was not lost upon Aunt Bell, expert that she was in all obliquities from accepted tradition. "The funny boy! Very ingenious, I'm sure. I dare say no one ever before said a good word for Judas since the day of his death, and this lad would canonise him out of hand. Think of it--St. Judas!" Nancy lay back among the cushions, talking idly, inconsequently.