“Oh, Paradise! oh, Paradise!” hummed Amy Raeburn that same Sunday morning as, the last to leave the Manse, she ran after her mother and sisters.  The storm of the two previous days had newly brightened the landscape.  Every twig and branch shone, and the red and yellow maple leaves, the wine-color of the oak, the burnished copper of the beech, were like jewels in the sun.

“If it were not Sunday I would dance,” said Amy, subduing her steps to a sober walk as she saw approaching the majestic figure of Mrs. Cyril Bannington Barnes.

“You are late, Amy Raeburn,” said this lady.  “Your father went to church a half-hour ago, and the bell is tolling.  Young people should cultivate a habit of being punctual.  This being a few minutes behind time is very reprehensible—­very rep-re-hen-sible indeed, my love.”

“Yes, ma’am,” replied Amy, meekly, walking slowly beside the also tardy Mrs. Barnes.

“I dare say,” continued Mrs. Barnes, “that you are thinking to yourself that I also am late.  But, Amy, I have no duty to the parish.  I am an independent woman.  You are a girl, and the minister’s daughter at that.  You are in a very different position.  I do hope, Amy Raeburn, that you will not be late another Sunday morning.  Your mother is not so good a disciplinarian as I could wish.”

“No, Mrs. Barnes?” said Amy, with a gentle questioning manner, which would have irritated the matron still more had their progress not now ceased on the church steps.  Amy, both resentful and amused, fluttered, like an alarmed chick to the brooding mother-wing, straight to the minister’s pew.  Mrs. Barnes, smoothing ruffled plumes, proceeded with stately and impressive tread to her place in front of the pulpit.

Doctor Raeburn was rising to pronounce the invocation.  The church was full.  Amy glanced over to the Wainwright pew, and saw Grace, and smiled.  Into Amy’s mind stole a text she was fond of, quite as if an angel had spoken it, and she forgot that she had been ruffled the wrong way by Mrs. Cyril Bannington Barnes.  This was the text: 

“Be not overcome of evil, but overcome evil with good.”

“You are a hateful, wicked girl, Amy,” said Amy to herself.  “Why, when you have so much to make you happy, are you so easily upset by a fretful old lady, who is, after all, your friend, and would stand by you if there were need?”

Amy did not know it, but it was Grace’s sweet and tranquil look that had brought the text to her mind.  One of the dearest things in life is that we may do good and not know that we are doing it.

When the Sunday hush fell on the house of which Mrs. Wainwright had spoken Grace came softly tapping at the door.

“Yes, dear,” called her mother; “come right in.”

“Mamma,” said Grace, after a few minutes, “will you tell me plainly, if you don’t mind, what is worrying papa?  I don’t mean generally, but what special trouble is on his mind to-day?”