“He stands fire like a Yankee veteran.”

“It’s inimitable,” said Sin Saxon, wiping the moist merriment from her eyes.  “And your cap, Leslie!  And that bonnet!  And this unutterable old oddity of a gown!  Who did contrive it all? and where did they come from?  You’ll carry off the glory of the evening.  It ought to be the last.”

“No, indeed,” said Leslie.  “Barbara Frietchie must be last, of course.  But I’m so glad you think it will do.  I hope they’ll be amused.”

“Amused!  If you could only see your own face!”

“I see Sir Charles’s, and that makes mine.”

The new performer, you perceive, was an actor with a title.

That night’s coach, driving up while the dress-rehearsal of the other tableaux was going on at the hall, brought Cousin Delight to the Green Cottage, and Leslie met her at the door.

Sunday morning was a pause and rest and hush of beauty and joy.  They sat—­Delight and Leslie—­by their open window, where the smell of the lately harvested hay came over from the wide, sunshiny entrance of the great barn, and away beyond stretched the pine woods, and the hills swelled near in dusky evergreen, and indigo shadows, and lessened far down toward Winnipiseogee, to where, faint and tender and blue, the outline of little Ossipee peeped in between great shoulders so modestly,—­seen only through the clearest air on days like this.  Leslie’s little table, with fresh white cover, held a vase of ferns and white convolvulus, and beside this Cousin Delight’s two books that came out always from the top of her trunk,—­her Bible and her little “Daily Food.”  To-day the verses from Old and New Testaments were these:  “The steps of a good man are ordered by the Lord, and he delighteth in his way.”  “Walk circumspectly, not as fools, but as wise, redeeming the time.”

They had a talk about the first,—­“The steps,” the little details; not merely the general trend and final issue; if, indeed, these could be directed without the other.

“You always make me see things, Cousin Delight,” Leslie said.

“It is very plain,” Delight answered; “if people only would read the Bible as they read even a careless letter from a friend, counting each word of value, and searching for more meaning and fresh inference to draw out the most.  One word often answers great doubts and askings that have troubled the world.”

Afterward, they walked round by a still wood-path under the Ledge to the North Village, where there was a service.  It was a plain little church, with unpainted pews; but the windows looked forth upon a green mountain side, and whispers of oaks and pines and river-music crept in, and the breath of sweet water-lilies, heaped in a great bowl upon the communion table of common stained cherrywood, floated up and filled the place.  The minister, a quiet, gray-haired man, stayed his foot an instant at that simple altar, before he went up the few steps to the desk.  He