Sunday had not been an unalloyed joy. Mrs. Howland and her niece had attended church, but to Kate the sermon was too long, and the singing too loud. The girl mentioned both in a listless way, at the same time saying that it was always like that except when the sermon was interesting, then it was too short and the choir took up all the time there was with their tiresome singing. Dinner had been long in preparation, and, in spite of Mrs. Rowland's gladly given assistance, the dish-washing and the kitchen-tidying had been longer still. All day Kate's step had been more than lagging, and her face more than discontented. In the twilight, as the two women sat together, Mrs. Rowland laid hold of her courage with both hands and spoke. "Kate, dear, is n't there something, anything, worth while to you?" "Nothing, auntie. I feel simply buried alive." "But can't you think of anything--" "Think of anything!" interrupted the girl swiftly. "Of course I can! If I had money--or lived somewhere else--or could go somewhere, or see something once in a while, it would be different; but here--!" Mrs. Howland shook her head. "But it would n't be different, my dear," she demurred. "Why, of course it would!" laughed Kate bitterly. "It could n't help it." Again Mrs. Howland shook her head. Then a whimsical smile crossed her face. "Kate," she said, "there are crumbs on the plates out in the world just the same as there are here; and if here you teach yourself to see nothing but crumbs, you will see nothing but crumbs out there. In short, dissatisfaction with everyday living is the same joy-killer whether in town or city, farmhouse or palace. Oh, I 'm preaching, I know, dear," went on Mrs. Howland hurriedly, as she saw the angry light in the other's eyes, "but--I had to speak--you don't know how it's growing on you. Come, let's kiss and make up; then think it over." Kate frowned, then laughed constrainedly. "Don't worry, aunt," she replied, rising, and just touching her aunt's lips with her own. "I still think it would be different out there; but--I suppose you 'll always remain unconvinced, for I shall never have the chance to prove it. My plates won't belong anywhere but in Hopkinsville cupboards! Come, will you play to me?" When Mrs. Rowland returned from England, one of the first letters she received after reaching home was a cordial invitation from her dead brother's daughter, Kate, to visit her.