“It can’t rouse any more criticism than it has already had,” said his sister. “I shan’t care what they say about the gown, if they only hear my message.” * * * * * With subdued swish of black silk skirts, and a decorous silencing of whispers, the Auburn Ladies’ Literary Association came to order. Barbara, with veiled amusement, looked about the familiar “parlors” of the Presbyterian church. The standard and banner, with the legend “Honor Class,” had been moved into a corner, the melodeon, stripped of its green cover, stood in walnut nakedness on the platform, and a sprawling bunch of carnations and a gavel ornamented the superintendent’s desk. The map of Palestine, done in colored chalk, had been partially erased from the blackboard at the head of the room, and beneath it was written the following PROGRAM _Roll Call._ Answered by quotations from Shakespeare. _Instrumental Solo._ “Murmuring Zephyrs.” MISS MARTHA CRARY. _Recitation._ “Queen of the Flowers.” MISS HYPATIA HARRISON. _Paper._ “Geo. Eliot’s Life, Character, and Position as a Novelist.” MRS. ABBIE PENFOLD. _Vocal Solo._ “Night Sinks on the Wave.” MISS LIBBIE DARWIN. _Address._ “The Literary Atmosphere of Our Club.” MRS. ANGIE BANKSON. _Readings._ { _a._ Macbeth. { _b._ Daisy’s Daisies. MISS COLEMAN. _Paper._ “Psychology of the Child in Relation to Club Work.” MISS BARBARA PRENTICE GRAFTON. “It’s to be hoped that Abbie’s and Angie’s are not so long as mine,” thought Barbara, irreverently, “or there’ll be no one to put the Grafton mackerel to soak to-night; to say nothing of all the winds and waves that must be passed through before they come to me.” It was the “wind and wave” part of the program that appealed to the audience. The papers were accorded polite attention, as befitted Auburn manners, but the musical numbers and readings were followed by the subdued hum that is an expression of club delight. For Barbara, the entire entertainment of the day was not furnished by the program. Between the swaying fans she caught glimpses of Mrs. Enderby’s placid face, relaxed in sleep; from the church kitchen came the rattle of paper napkins and the clink of Miss Pettibone’s tray, and from the rear of the room sounded, at intervals, the cough of Mrs. Crampton, a genteel warning to speakers that their voices did not “carry.” “Was there ever a human being more frightfully out of her element than I am here!” thought Barbara. “If the House-Plant could only see Mrs. Enderby! But she’s no more asleep than all the rest of them. What _am_ I going to do to wake them up!” This thought was uppermost in her mind as the afternoon was tinkled and applauded away. It was more than ever prominent as the precise, ladylike voice of Mrs. Bankson was raised a half-tone higher in her closing paragraph:—