“These, ladies,” she said, “as you will have guessed, are for the winter wear of our parish poor.  Though you are not all so fortunate as to belong to our church, still I feel there is not one of you here but will be more than glad to help forward so blessed a charity as clothing the naked” (Mrs. Upjohn, in view of the nature of the garments, spoke even more literally than she intended), “who none the less need your ministrations whether you worship with us or apart.  Maria, my child, Bell, Phebe, Mattie, will you kindly distribute the work among the ladies?  There is another basket ready outside if the supply gives out.  Dick, I would like you to carry around the thimbles.  Jake, here are the needles and the spools and the scissors.  If I may be permitted, ladies, I would suggest that we should all begin with the button-holes.”

Nothing but the thought of the recompense in the coming supper could have sustained Mrs. Upjohn’s doomed guests in the prospect before them.  Extracts from Baroness Bunsen, and buttonholes in canton-flannel charity nightgowns, and a hot July afternoon, made a sum of misery that was almost too great a tax upon even Joppian amiability.

“I say it’s a shame!” cried Bell Masters, in unconcealed wrath.  “The idea of springing such a trap on us!  Let Mrs. Upjohn’s parish sew for its own poor, I won’t crease my fresh dress holding that great, thick lump on my lap all the afternoon.  I’m not going to be swindled into helping in this fashion.”

“Oh, yes you are,” said Mr. Halloway, bubbling over with suppressed merriment at the intense fun of it all.  “There isn’t one of you here who will refuse.  I never knew any thing so delightful and novel in my whole life.  This condensed combination, in one afternoon party of charity, literature, and indigestion is masterly.  Miss Mudge, here is a seat for you right by Miss Masters.  Miss Phebe, let me find you a chair.”

And in a few moments, simply, it seemed, by the natural law of gravitation, without any engineering whatever, Mrs. Upjohn’s guests had resolved themselves into two distinct parties, the elders all in the drawing-room, the younger ones in the parlor across the hall, too far off from Mr. Webb for their gay whispering to disturb that worthy as he boldly plunged headlong at his work, to do or die written on every feature of his thin, long face.

“So this is what the party turned out, Miss Masters, is it?” said Moulton, pulling his moustache as he stood up beside her.  “A first-class Dorcas society.”

“Charity covereth a multitude of sins,” said Bell, crossly, giving a vindictive snap with her scissors, “but it won’t begin to cover the enormity of Mrs. Upjohn’s transgressions on this occasion.  You gentlemen must be very devoted to atone to us for the button-holes.  There’s Mr. De Forest standing in the other room looking as if he wished he were dead.  Go and bring him here.”

Thus summoned, Mr. De Forest came leisurely enough, looking, if possible, a little more languid and blase than he did in the morning.  Bell instantly made a place for him on the sofa by her side.