“But who is to do it?” asked Mrs. Swan. “I can’t.”

“Are you equal to the emergency, Betsey?” asked.  Mrs. Wynn.

“I believe I possess the Christian fortitude to do my duty, however disagreeable it may be,” replied that personage, with the air of a martyr being led to the stake.

“There, it is settled,” said the old lady.  “We will go together”—­which they did that very day.

Pretty little Mrs. Garnet had finished her work for the day, donned a fresh calico that fitted her plump form without a wrinkle, and sat crooning a soft lullaby to that objectionable baby, when they entered.  She welcomed the ladies hospitably, but eyed askance their sombre and awful countenances.

“It’s a pleasant day,” she said, by way of starting conversation.

“There’s nothing pleasant to me, in this wicked world,” said Miss Pryor, dolorously.

“How is your rheumatism, Mrs. Wynn?” she asked again, after a prolonged silence, hoping better success from this question regarding that worthy lady’s manifold ailments.

“It’s heavenly in comparison with the state of my mind,” was the unlooked-for response.

Then there was another dreadful pause, broken at length by the elder of the group.  “I’ve a revelation to make, neighbor, that is of such a nature that I shudder to speak upon the subject, and which closely concerns more than one person in this immediate vicinity.”

Thereupon the good lady proceeded to unfold the story that had emanated from the minister’s wife, in regard to the deplorable state of the morals of these new-comers in the quiet village.

Instead of being shocked at the recital, and literally extinguished, as she undoubtedly ought to have been, by the knowledge that her former little peccadillos had come to light, the bright-eyed hostess burst out laughing in the very faces of the lugubrious guests.

“It’s turned out as I expected,” she said, at last, when she had done laughing.  “Now, ladies, so far as these slanderous reports concern myself, I care very little about them, for I can refute them by bringing convincing proof to the contrary.”  Thus saying, she rose, and, after a short disappearance, returned with a marriage certificate and the family records.  “Here,” she said, “is the date of my marriage, some three years back, and the birth of our only child—­just one year ago.  Baby was twelve months old yesterday.

“But now comes the disagreeable part of the story.  My husband’s mother, whom I love and respect, for having, in the years since I first knew her, been all that I could ask in a parent, had one painful episode in her life.  She was to have been married to a wealthy gentleman, whom she loved devotedly; but, on the day appointed for the wedding, the expected bridegroom met with an accident, which proved immediately fatal.  After he was buried, the object of his fondest affection found what