She loved her subject because she was talking about “Our Duty to Our Neighbours.” Mahala felt that every one had a duty to his neighbours. She did not feel that Ashwater always performed this duty creditably, and to-night was her first chance to say to the ministers, the lawyers, the doctors, and the church deacons, precisely what she conceived to be the duty of any individual to his neighbour. As she talked, simply, convincingly, at times eloquently, Elizabeth Spellman could not keep from burrowing the hand next Mahlon down against his side where she took a tight grip upon his coat, and he knew that she was praying with every fibre of her being that Mahala might acquit herself in a manner that would be unquestionably above criticism and redound inevitably to their great credit. Mahlon’s heart was pounding till it jarred him. There had been a great deal to agitate it for a number of years past. At the present minute the load it was labouring under was almost more than it could bear and function properly. Mahlon’s feet were cold; his hands were cold; and his head was hot—far too hot. He did not know why these things should be, for the simple reason that there was not the shadow of a fear in his heart that Mahala would fail. He knew Mahala well enough to know that if she forgot the set speech she had arisen to make, she was perfectly capable of improvisation that would fill the bill creditably. And he did not know why he spent time thinking of such a thing as that, because it was quite impossible that Mahala should fail. He was a bit irritated at the grip of Elizabeth’s clutching hand at his side. He knew that it was his full duty, as the head of the house, to quiet the fears of his womenfolk. He should have covertly secured Elizabeth’s hand and allowed the waves of certainty that were possessing his veins to be transmitted to her, and why in the world he was not giving her this satisfaction in mental support, he did not know. But the fact was that he would have given quite a bit to be able to shake off her clutching hand. Why need she be keyed up to such a point concerning his daughter that she must clutch and grab? Why should she not sit erect in calm certainty that his daughter would acquit herself perfectly in whatever she undertook? Look at the splendour of her dress, fashioned mostly by her own hands. Look at her cool forehead, her graceful gesture, her natural curls having the temerity to curl tighter with the humidity of the night that was spelling tragedy for products of the waving board and the curling iron. Listen to the sweetness of her voice. Notice that her hand discarded the fan that others worked assiduously.