Of such was Miss Anna Warrington, spinster-aunt of Richard.  She occupied the other half of the Bennington pew.  Until half a dozen years ago, when her boy had come into his own, she had known but little save poverty and disillusion; and the good she always dreamed of doing she was now doing in fact.  Very quietly her withered old hand stole over the low partition and pressed Mrs. Bennington’s hand.  The clasp spoke mutely of courage and good-will.  She knew nothing of awe, kindly soul; the great and the small were all the same to her.  She remembered without rancor the time when Mrs. Bennington scarcely noticed her; but sorrow had visited Mrs. Bennington and widened her vision and broadened her heart; and the two met each other on a common basis, the loss of dear ones.

The clock is invariably hung in the rear of the church.  The man who originally selected this position was evidently a bit of a cynic.  Perhaps he wanted to impress the preacher with the fact that there must be a limitation to all things, even good sermons; or perhaps he wanted to test the patience and sincerity of the congregation.  The sermon was rather tedious this Sunday; shiny, well-worn platitudes are always tedious.  And many twisted in their seats to get a glimpse of the clock.

Whenever Patty looked around (for youth sits impatiently in church), always she met eyes, eyes, eyes.  But she was a brave lass, and more than once she beat aside the curious gaze.  How she hated them!  She knew what they were whispering, whispering.  Her brother was going to marry an actress.  She was proud of her brother’s choice.  He was going to marry a woman who was as brilliant as she was handsome, who counted among her friends the great men and women of the time, who dwelt in a world where mediocrity is unknown and likewise unwelcome.  Mediocrity’s teeth are sharp only for those who fear them.

Patty was nervous on her mother’s account, not her own.  It had been a blow to the mother, who had always hoped to have her boy to herself as long as she lived.  He had never worried her with flirtations; there had been no youthful affairs.  The mother of the boy who is always falling in love can meet the final blow half-way.  Mrs. Bennington had made an idol of the boy, but at the same time she had made a man of him.  From the time he could talk till he had entered man’s estate, she had been constant at his side, now with wisdom and learning, now with laughter and wit, always and always with boundless and brooding love.  The first lesson had been on the horror of cruelty; the second, on the power of truth; the third, on the good that comes from firmness.  It is very easy to make an idol and a fool of a boy; but Mrs. Bennington always had the future in mind.  It was hard, it was bitter, that another should step in and claim the perfected man.  She had been lulled into the belief that now she would have him all her own till the end of her days.  But it was not to be.  Her sense of justice was