It was a wide street, deserted save for a small child carrying milk-pitchers, and a young man with a bowler hat hurrying churchwards; but, as they watched, three figures appeared at the upper end. Thomas came first, wearing with pride a new overcoat and carrying a Bible with an elastic band. (He had begged it from the housemaid, who, thankful for some sign of grace in such an abandoned character, had lent it gladly.) Several yards behind Billy marched along, beaming on the world as was his wont; and last of all came Buff, deep in a story, walking in a dream. When the story became very exciting he jumped rapidly several times backwards and forwards from the pavement to the gutter. He was quite oblivious of his surroundings till a starved-looking cat crept through the area railings and mewed at him. He stopped and stroked it gently. Then he got something out of his trouser-pocket which he laid before the creature, and stood watching it anxiously. Elizabeth's eyes grew soft as she watched him. "Buff has the tenderest heart for all ill-used things," she said, "especially cats and dogs." She went forward to meet her young brother. "What were you giving the poor cat, sonny?" she asked. "A bit of milk-chocolate. It's the nearest I had to milk, but it didn't like it. Couldn't I carry it to the vestry and give it to John for a pet?" "I'm afraid John wouldn't receive it with any enthusiasm," said his sister. ("John's the beadle," she explained to Mr. Townshend.) "But I expect, Buff, it really has a home of its home--quite a nice one--and has only come out for a stroll; anyway, we must hurry. We're late as it is." The cavalcade moved again, and as they walked Elizabeth gave Mr. Townshend a description of the meeting he was about to attend. "It's called the Fellowship Meeting," she told him, "and it is a joint meeting of the Young Men's and the Young Women's Christian Association. Someone reads a paper, and the rest of us discuss it--or don't discuss it, as the case may be. Some of the papers are distinctly good, for we have young men with ideas. Today I'm afraid it's a wee young laddie reading his first paper. The president this winter is a most estimable person, but he has a perfect genius for choosing inappropriate hymns. At ten a.m. he gives out 'Abide with me, fast falls the eventide,' or again, we find ourselves singing 'The sun that bids us rest is waking Our brethren 'neath the Western sky,' --such an obvious untruth! And he chooses the prizes for the Band of Hope children, and last year, when I was distributing them, a mite of four toddled up in response to her name, and I handed her a cheerful-looking volume. I just happened to glance at the title, and it was _The Scarlet Letter_, by Nathaniel Hawthorne. I suppose he must have bought it because it had a nice bright cover! Don't look at me if he does anything funny to-day! I am so given to giggle."