“That’s Mrs. Johnson’s turnout,” said Eudora.  “In the winter Martin always takes Alice to church and then returns for her.”

“And folks say,” interposed Asenath, “that if the walking is bad or the weather cold, both Alice and her mother go two miles out of their way to carry home some old woman or little child, who lives at a distance.  I’ve seen Alice myself with half a dozen or more of these children, and she looked as proud and happy as a queen.  Queer taste, isn’t it?”

John thought it was, though he himself said:  “It is like what Lily would have done, had she possessed the power and means.”

“Well, brother, what of Miss Alice?  Was she at church?” Anna asked softly.  “I need not ask though, for of course she was.  I should almost as soon think of hearing that Mr. Howard himself was absent as Alice.”

“That reminds me,” said John, “of what you said concerning Mr. Howard and Alice.  There can’t be any truth in it.  She surely does not fancy him.”

“Not as a lover,” Anna replied.  “She respects him greatly, however, because he is a clergyman.”

“Is she then a very strong church woman?” John asked.

“Yes, but not a bit of a blue,” Anna replied.  “If all Christians were like Alice, religion would be divested of much of its supposed gloom.  She shows it everywhere, and so does not have to wear it on set occasions to prove that she possesses it.  How were you pleased with Miss Johnson?”

“How was I pleased with her?  I felt like kissing the hem of her blue silk, of course!  But I tell you, Anna, those ragged, dirty urchins who came trooping into that damask-cushioned pew, marred the picture terribly.  What possible pleasure can she take in teaching them?”

Anna had an idea of the pleasure it might be to feel that one was doing good, but she could not explain lucidly, so she did not attempt it.  She only said Miss Alice was very benevolent and received her reward in the love bestowed upon her so freely by those whom she befriended.

“And to win her good graces, must one pretend to be interested in those ragamuffins?” John asked, a little spitefully.

“Why, no, not unless they were.  Alice could not wish you to be deceitful,” was Anna’s reply, after which a long silence ensued, and Anna dropped away to sleep, while her brother sat watching the fire blazing in the grate, and trying to decide as to his future course.

Should he return to New York, accept the offer of an old friend of his father’s, an experienced practitioner, and thus earn his own bread honorably; or, should he remain a while at Snowdon and cultivate Alice Johnson?  He had never yet failed when he chose to exert himself, and though he might, for a time, be compelled to adopt a different code of morality from that which he at present acknowledged, he would do it for once.  He could be interested in those ragged children; he could encourage Sunday schools;