by a rush of the current, and she had come very near being drowned.  She was got out, however, by a person living near by, and cared for by some kind women in a house near the river, where he had been fortunate enough to discover her.—­Who cut her hair off?  Perhaps those good people,—­she had been out of her head.  She was alive and unharmed, at any rate, wanting only a few days’ rest.  They might be very thankful to get her back, and leave her to tell the rest of her story when she had got her strength and memory, for she was not quite herself yet, and might not be for some days.

And so there she was at last laid in her own bed, listening again to the ripple of the waters beneath her, Miss Silence sitting on one side looking as sympathetic as her insufficient nature allowed her to look; the Irishwoman uncertain between delight at Myrtle’s return and sorrow for her condition; and Miss Cynthia Badlam occupying herself about house-matters, not unwilling to avoid the necessity of displaying her conflicting emotions.

Before he left the house, Mr. Gridley repeated the statement is the most precise manner,—­some miles down the river—­upset and nearly drowned—­rescued almost dead—­brought to and cared for by kind women in the house where he, Byles Gridley, found her.  These were the facts, and nothing more than this was to be told at present.  They had better be made known at once, and the shortest and best way would be to have it announced by the minister at meeting that forenoon.  With their permission, he would himself write the note for Mr. Stoker to read, and tell the other ministers that they might announce it to their people.

The bells rang for meeting, but the little household at The Poplars did not add to the congregation that day.  In the mean time Kitty Fagan had gone down with Mr. Byles Gridley’s note, to carry it to the Rev. Mr. Stoker.  But, on her way, she stopped at the house of one Mrs. Finnegan, a particular friend of hers; and the great event of the morning furnishing matter for large discourse, and various social allurements adding to the fascination of having a story to tell, Kitty Fagan forgot her note until meeting had begun and the minister had read the text of his sermon.  “Bless my soul! and sure I ’ve forgot ahl about the letter!” she cried all at once, and away she tramped for the meeting-house.  The sexton took the note, which was folded, and said he would hand it up to the pulpit after the sermon,—­it would not do to interrupt the preacher.

The Rev. Mr. Stoker had, as was said, a somewhat remarkable gift in prayer,—­an endowment by no means confined to profoundly spiritual persons,—­in fact, not rarely owing much of its force to a strong animal nature underlying the higher attributes.  The sweet singer of Israel would never have written such petitions and such hymns if his manhood had been less complete; the flavor of remembered frailties could not help giving a character to his most devout exercises,