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spoon with some dishwater out of the back door
(an act never permitted at the brick house), and

putting coffee grounds in the sink. All evidences
of crime having been removed by Rebecca, and damages

repaired in all possible cases, the three entered
the parlor, where Mr. and Mrs. Cobb and Deacon

and Mrs. Milliken had already appeared.
It was such a pleasant evening! Occasionally

they left the heathen in his blindness bowing down
to wood and stone, not for long, but just to give

themselves (and him) time enough to breathe, and
then the Burches told strange, beautiful, marvelous

things. The two smaller children sang together,
and Rebecca, at the urgent request of Mrs. Burch,

seated herself at the tinkling old piano and gave
"Wild roved an Indian girl, bright Alfarata" with

considerable spirit and style.
At eight o'clock she crossed the room, handed a

palm-leaf fan to her aunt Miranda, ostensibly that
she might shade her eyes from the lamplight; but

it was a piece of strategy that gave her an opportunity
to whisper, "How about cookies?"

"Do you think it's worth while?" sibilated Miss
Miranda in answer.

"The Perkinses always do."
"All right. You know where they be."

Rebecca moved quietly towards the door, and the
young Burches cataracted after her as if they could

not bear a second's separation. In five minutes
they returned, the little ones bearing plates of thin

caraway wafers,--hearts, diamonds, and circles
daintily sugared, and flecked with caraway seed

raised in the garden behind the house. These were
a specialty of Miss Jane's, and Rebecca carried a

tray with six tiny crystal glasses filled with dandelion
wine, for which Miss Miranda had been famous in

years gone by. Old Deacon Israel had always had
it passed, and he had bought the glasses himself

in Boston. Miranda admired them greatly, not only
for their beauty but because they held so little.

Before their advent the dandelion wine had been served
in sherry glasses.

As soon as these refreshments--commonly
called a "colation" in Riverboro--had been genteelly

partaken of, Rebecca looked at the clock, rose
from her chair in the children's corner, and said

cheerfully, "Come! time for little missionaries to
be in bed!"

Everybody laughed at this, the big missionaries
most of all, as the young people shook hands and

disappeared with Rebecca.
XX

A CHANGE OF HEART
That niece of yours is the most remarkable

girl I have seen in years," said Mr.
Burch when the door closed.

"She seems to be turnin' out smart enough lately,
but she's consid'able heedless," answered Miranda,

"an' most too lively."
"We must remember that it is deficient, not

excessive vitality, that makes the greatest trouble in
this world," returned Mr. Burch.

"She'd make a wonderful missionary," said Mrs.
Burch; "with her voice, and her magnetism, and her

gift of language."
"If I was to say which of the two she was best

adapted for, I'd say she'd make a better heathen,"
remarked Miranda curtly.

"My sister don't believe in flattering children,"
hastily interpolated Jane, glancing toward Mrs.

Burch, who seemed somewhat shocked, and was
about to open her lips to ask if Rebecca was not

a "professor."
Mrs. Cobb had been looking for this question all

the evening and dreading some allusion to her
favorite as gifted in prayer. She had taken an

instantaneous and illogical dislike to the Rev. Mr. Burch
in the afternoon because he called upon Rebecca

to "lead." She had seen the pallor creep into the
girl's face, the hunted look in her eyes, and the

trembling of the lashes on her cheeks, and realized
the ordeal through which she was passing. Her

prejudice against the minister had relaxed under his
genial talk and presence, but feeling that Mrs.

Burch was about to tread on dangerous ground, she
hastily asked her if one had to change cars many

times going from Riverboro to Syria. She felt that
it was not a particularly appropriate question, but it

served her turn.
Deacon Milliken, meantime, said to Miss Sawyer,

"Mirandy, do you know who Rebecky reminds me
of?"

"I can guess pretty well," she replied.
"Then you've noticed it too! I thought at first,

seein' she favored her father so on the outside, that
she was the same all through; but she ain't, she's

like your father, Israel Sawyer."
"I don't see how you make that out," said

Miranda, thoroughly astonished.
"It struck me this afternoon when she got up

to give your invitation in meetin'. It was kind o'
cur'ous, but she set in the same seat he used to

when he was leader o' the Sabbath-school. You
know his old way of holdin' his chin up and throwin'

his head back a leetle when he got up to say
anything? Well, she done the very same thing; there

was more'n one spoke of it."
The callers left before nine, and at that hour (an

impossibly dissipated one for the brick house) the
family retired for the night. As Rebecca carried

Mrs. Burch's candle upstairs and found herself
thus alone with her for a minute, she said shyly,

"Will you please tell Mr. Burch that I'm not a
member of the church? I didn't know what to do

when he asked me to pray this afternoon. I hadn't
the courage to say I had never done it out loud

and didn't know how. I couldn't think; and I was
so frightened I wanted to sink into the floor. It

seemed bold and wicked for me to pray before all
those old church members and make believe I was

better than I really was; but then again, wouldn't
God think I was wicked not to be willing to pray

when a minister asked me to?"
The candle light fell on Rebecca's flushed, sensitive

face. Mrs. Burch bent and kissed her good-
night. "Don't be troubled," she said. "I'll tell

Mr. Burch, and I guess God will understand."
Rebecca waked before six the next morning, so

full of household cares that sleep was impossible.
She went to the window and looked out; it was

still dark, and a blustering, boisterous day.
"Aunt Jane told me she should get up at half

past six and have breakfast at half past seven," she
thought; "but I daresay they are both sick with

their colds, and aunt Miranda will be fidgety with
so many in the house. I believe I'll creep down

and start things for a surprise."
She put on a wadded wrapper and slippers and

stole quietly down the tabooed front stairs,
carefully closed the kitchen door behind her so that no

noise should waken the rest of the household, busied
herself for a half hour with the early morning routine

she knew so well, and then went back to her room
to dress before calling the children.

Contrary to expectation, Miss Jane, who the
evening before felt better than Miranda, grew worse

in the night, and was whollyunable to leave her bed
in the morning. Miranda grumbled without ceasing

during the progress of her hasty toilet, blaming
everybody in the universe for the afflictions she had

borne and was to bear during the day; she even
castigated the Missionary Board that had sent the

Burches to Syria, and gave it as her unbiased opinion
that those who went to foreign lands for the purpose

of saving heathen should stay there and save
'em, and not go gallivantin' all over the earth with

a passel o' children, visitin' folks that didn't want
'em and never asked 'em.

Jane lay anxiously and restlessly in bed with a
feverish headache, wondering how her sister could

manage without her.
Miranda walked stiffly through the dining-room,

tying a shawl over her head to keep the draughts
away, intending to start the breakfast fire and then

call Rebecca down, set her to work, and tell her,
meanwhile, a few plain facts concerning the proper

way of representing the family at a missionary
meeting.

She opened the kitchen door and stared vaguely
about her, wondering whether she had strayed into

the wrong house by mistake.
The shades were up, and there was a roaring fire

in the stove; the teakettle was singing and bubbling
as it sent out a cloud of steam, and pushed

over its capacious nose was a half sheet of note
paper with "Compliments of Rebecca" scrawled

on it. The coffee pot was scalding, the coffee was
measured out in a bowl, and broken eggshells for

the settling process were standing near. The cold
potatoes and corned beef were in the wooden tray,

and "Regards of Rebecca" stuck on the chopping
knife. The brown loaf was out, the white loaf was

out, the toast rack was out, the doughnuts were out,
the milk was skimmed, the butter had been brought

from the dairy.
Miranda removed the shawl from her head and

sank into the kitchen rocker, ejaculating under her
breath, "She is the beatin'est child! I declare she's

all Sawyer!"
The day and the evening passed off with credit

and honor to everybody concerned, even to Jane,
who had the discretion to recover instead of growing

worse and acting as a damper to the general
enjoyment. The Burches left with lively regrets,

and the little missionaries, bathed in tears, swore
eternal friendship with Rebecca, who pressed into

their hands at parting a poem composed before
breakfast.

TO MARY AND MARTHA BURCH
Born under Syrian skies,

'Neath hotter suns than ours;


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