Ruth came to the door.

“Come, Flossy,” she said; “where in the world are you?  We shall be late.”  And said it precisely as though she had been waiting for that young person for half an hour.

Flossy emerged from the adjoining tent.

“I am not going.” she said.  “I have turned nurse-girl, and have the sweetest little baby in here that ever grew.  Mrs. Adams is going in my place.  Mrs. Adams, Miss Erskine.”

And as those two ladies walked away together Mrs. Adams might have been heard to say: 

“What a lovely, unselfish disposition your friend has!  It was so beautiful in her to take me so by storm this morning!  I am afraid I was very selfish; which is apt to be the case, I think, when one comes in contact with actual unselfishness.  It is one of the Christian graces that is very hard to cultivate, anyway; don’t you think so?”

Ruth was silent; not from discourtesy, but from astonishment.  It was such a strange experience to hear any one speak of Flossy Shipley as “unselfish.”  In truth she had grown up under influences that had combined to foster the most complete and tyrannical selfishness—­exercised in a pretty, winning sort of way, but rooted and grounded in her very life.  So indeed was Ruth’s; but she, of course, did not know that, though she had clear vision for the mote in Flossy’s eyes.

Meantime Marion had staid her busy pen and was biting the end of it thoughtfully.  The two tents were such near neighbors that the latter conversation and introduction had been distinctly heard.  She glanced around to the girl on the bed.

“Eurie,” she said, “are you asleep, or are you enjoying Flossy’s last new departure?”

Eurie giggled.

“I heard,” she said.  “The lazy little mouse has slipped out of a tedious hour, and has a chance to lounge and read a pleasant novel.  I dare say the mother is provided with them.”

Then Marion, after another thoughtful pause: 

“But, my child, how do you account for the necessity of going to the neighbors and taking the supervision of a baby in order to do that?  Flossy need not have gone to church if she didn’t choose.”

“Yes she need.  Don’t you suppose the child can see that it is the fashion of the place?  She is afraid that it wouldn’t look well to stay in the tent and lounge, without an excuse for doing so.  If that girl could only go to a place where it was the fashion for all the people to be good, she would be a saint, just because ‘they’ were.”

“She would have to go to heaven,” muttered Marion, going on with her writing.

“And, according to you, there is no such place; so there is no hope for her, after all.  Oh, dear!  I wonder if you are right, and nothing is of any consequence, anyhow?” And the weary girl turned on her pillow and tried not to think, an effort that was hard to accomplish after a week’s experience at Chautauqua.