had tiny lilac sprigs, on a white ground; Miss Kitty's the slenderest thread of pink. They had been made by Miss Miranda Black, the village dress-maker, in quite the latest fashion-a little modified in Miss Hannah's case, in the matter of what she considered unnecessary furbelows. There had been new bonnets to go with the dresses; Miss Kitty's had pink rose-buds in it, Miss Hannah had insisted on her having them-had equally insisted on purple lilacs, for her own.

At four o'clock-tall, slender, a little prim, they walked slowly down the box-bordered path, to their front gate. Each carried a neatly covered paper-box and an open parasol; from each right wrist dangled a black silk bag. With much ingenuity, they contrived at the same. time to hold their ruffled skirts well up from the dusty road, showing thereby the whitest of tucked petticoats, beautifully laundered.

"There's Mrs. Palmer," Miss Kitty said, as they saw a phaeton stopping at Deacon Day's. "She's waiting to speak to us.'

"Our cousins have not explained their reasons to us, as yet."

"Dressing up in your best clothes always did have a bad effect on you, Hannah Winthrop-I reckon you'd like to put your cousins, and all their belongings, under a glass case. How comes it you're walking-why didn't they send the carriage?"

"Cousin John did not bring down the carriage horses this time."

"Well, I won't keep you," Mrs. Palmer said. "You've got a good walk before you, and it's a terribly hot day. To my mind, the game wouldn't be worth the candle. If this phaeton would hold three, I'd drive you over myself."

"Thank you, we much prefer walking. Kitty and I do not feel the heat as much as stout people."

"The Winthrops always did run skin and bone. Good-bye, remember me to John and Elizabeth."

"John and Elizabeth!" For fully five minutes, Miss Hannah walked in silence, then she said emphatically: "Sally Palmer always was too familiar."

It was very hot out on the broad high road. It seemed a long while before they turned into the shady woodland path, with its far-off glimpses of blue sky, flecked with white clouds. Below was the steep bank; on one side, a little brook murmured merrily, while all around them was the soft rustling of leaves, and the calling of birds.

The wood road brought them to a wide lane, bordered on the one hand by fine old trees, on the other, by a hedge of wild roses, coming into bloom.

Miss Kitty broke off a spray of the delicately tinted blossoms. Isn't it pretty here?" she said. I wonder if Elizabeth will have tea on the lawn."

As they reached a low gate in the shrubbery, Miss Kitty suggested going in that way, and across the lawn; it was nearer than round by the drive.

"Certainly not," Miss Hannah answered. "It was a new departure, our walking over; we do not wish Elizabeth to feel that we are ready to dispense with all ceremony. With Elizabeth, it is necessary to maintain a certain amount of formality."

Those few rods, from the little gate to the big one, seemed suddenly the longest part of the way; their best shoes made every step an effort by now, and their hands ached, holding up their gowns and parasols.

"It's odd we don't hear any one about," said Miss Kitty.

"Probably Elizabeth did not bring down a large party."

"The carriage gates are locked, and the lodge is closed," Miss Kitty cried, a moment later. "Mrs. Turner must be living up at the house."

They stood a moment uncertain, then opening the gate leading to the foot path, bordering the drive, they made their way up to the house. It stood with inhospitably barred doors and windows, a silent mass of grey stone.

"It's closed!" Miss Kitty sank wearily down on the steps. "What shall we do Hannah?"

Miss Hannah put down her box of cookies and closed her parasol. "There's a mistake somewhere."

"Elizabeth's note was dated Thursday, and said to-morrowwhich would be to-day, Friday."

"I know," Miss Hannah answered, 'it's very puzzling. John must have

city immediately. I'll go look for Mrs. Turner."

She soon returned. "There isn't a sign of any one about the place. Mrs. Turner must have gone to the village."

"Elizabeth ought to have let us know."

"Kitty, either Deacon Day made a mistake, or else John and Elizabeth only ran down a day on business-you can see that the place has not been opened lately."

"But-the note?"

"That was our last year's invitation, I've studied it out-that the days of the week came the same, was merely a coincidence. I remember it turned suddenly cold, about the time Elizabeth left The Maples. Probably the deacon wore his old duster the last time for the season, the day we should have got that note. It was like a man to stick it in his pocket and forget all about it. There it has lain ever since, until to-day. Being 'Duster Day' and we chancing to get other mail, it got taken out with the rest."

Miss Kitty drew a long breath. "How clever you are, Hannah,— Father always said you should have been a man and followed the law. So we've been wronging Elizabeth all this time."

"I'll write her to-morrow."

"You won't tell her of our coming here?" Miss Kitty exclaimed.

"No indeed," Miss Hannah answered, "but Sally Palmer's sure to find out all about it-it will give her food for gossip for a month, unless, which isn't likely, something more interesting happens to divert her."

Miss Kitty stretched out her poor tired feet. "However are we to get home?"

"As we came," replied her sister.

"But I'm so tired, hungry, and thirsty."

Miss Hannah untied the box of cookies. "We might as well eat some of these, with those strawberries, and there's a spring down. yonder."

They went down the sloping lawn to the little spring. Just beyond stood a grove of young maples. The lawn itself was dotted here and there with fine old trees, beneath them fat red-breasted robins hopped tamely about, scarcely disturbed at the intrusion. From the rose garden, at one side of the house, came the low steady murmur of in

sects.

"Hannah," said Miss Kitty, "you and I are going to have a garden party."

Miss Hannah looked doubtful. "You ain't planning to eat, here on the grass?"

"Yes, I am."

"We'd be a deal more comfortable on the piazza."

"No, we wouldn't."

And though inwardly protesting, Miss Hannah, with much careful arranging of her draperies, settled herself on the grass and with a sigh of weariness untied her bonnet strings, throwing them back.

Miss Kitty took off her bonnet and black mitts. She spread out the white napkin, from the cookie box, on the grass, and put a bunch of pink roses in the centre. The cookies and strawberries were laid here and there, on little plates made of interwoven maple leaves.

"You are taking a heap of trouble, seeing you're so tired."

Miss Kitty looked up. "I couldn't bear we should have all our getting ready, and walk, and every thing for nothing. All the morning, I was wishing we could go somewhere, or

do something, it was such a perfect day-Elizabeth's note seemed like an answer to the wish-and I'm determined to have my good time some how."

She stuck a rose in her belt and sat down opposite Miss Hannah. "I wonder what Elizabeth would say, to see us?"

"That we were my gracious, who's this coming!"

Miss Kitty sprang up. "It's the minister!"

Mr. Gray came hurrying towards them, then he stopped, astonished. "Miss Winthrop! And Miss Kitty!"

For the first time in her life, Miss Hannah failed in due outward respect to the Cloth. But it was the first time she had been discovered by this or any other member of it, occupying such a lowly position. It was all very well for Kitty to spring swiftly up-she was young and light on her feet.

"Good afternoon." Miss Hannah held out her hand. “You will excuse my not rising?"

"Is it a picnic?" Mr. Gray asked, "and may I join? I'm very fond of picnics."

"It's a garden party," Miss Kitty answered, blushing a little.

"We shall be most pleased to have you join us," added her sister.

It was a very pleasant little affair. Before she knew it, Miss Kitty found herself explaining the why's and wherefore's of this very modest garden party.

"I too heard that Mr. Winthrop was at The Maples; and, as I wanted particularly to see him on a matter of business, I came over," Mr. Gray explained.

"I am sorry you should have been disappointed," Miss Hannah said.

"I assure you, I am very glad that I came. Do you know, Miss Win

throp, that I have been your pastor for six months, and this is the first time you have asked me to take tea with you?"

Of course Miss Hannah knew it, and in her hospitable soul had often deplored the necessity for this lack of hospitality. But Mr. Gray was good-looking, forty, unmarried-she was not going to give people a chance to say that she was trying to catch him for Kitty. She could hardly explain this to Mr. Gray, however.

Unconsciously, Miss Kitty came to her rescue. "We've not asked you to tea with us today," she said, and her voice had a ring of laughter, pretty to hear. She was pretty to look at too, under the flush of excitement. Her look of primness had disappeared, and something of her shyness.

Mr. Gray took out his note book. "Then you are going to ask meWhat day shall it be, Miss Winthrop? Suppose we say Mondaythat, you know, is clergyman's leisure day-and you will have cookies for tea-and strawberries?"

"We shall be very happy to see you on Monday, sir," Miss Hannah said, and the words if a little formal, were perfectly sincere.

Far away, through the stillness, they caught the sound of the village clock, striking the hour.

"Six o'clock," Miss Hannah said. "Kitty, suppose you show Mr. Gray the rose garden before we go. I'll wait here, thank you sir," as the minister offered a hand to assist her in rising.

Miss Hannah only waited, however, until their backs were turned, then she scrambled to her hands and knees, and from thence to an upright position. "There," she gasped, smoothing down her skirts, "that's

a deal better than being hauled up by a man." She gave a little laugh, the words reminding her of Mrs. Palmer. "Maybe it's just as well Sally wasn't about, just now. After all, I don't know which is worseto be short and stout, or long and stiff?"

The walk home did not seem so long to Miss Kitty. Whether the fact that Mr. Gray insisted on accompanying them had anything to do with it is not known-assuredly, his presence in no wise lessened the distance for Miss Hannah.

Mrs. Day was out on her porch, as the three passed. Mrs. Palmer was there also; possibly she had staid to tea, for the express purpose of seeing the sisters' return.

Miss Hannah felt the curiosity in their eyes pursue herself and her companions, all the way to the Winthrop gate. "I reckon, they're asking themselves how the minister happens to be walking home with us," she said to herself. "They, and all the rest, are bound to find out about that invitation. Somehow, that eating on the grass business doesn't seem quite so foolish, the minister being there and I guess, when folks hear of his coming to tea on Monday, they'll be too busy over that to bother about any thing else." Certainly, there were times when a man did come in handy.

"Kitty," Miss Hannah said later that evening, "it's as I thought, that envelope has the last September post-mark. I never before neglected to thoroughly examine the outside of a letter-I never will again.”

Miss Kitty was guiltily conscious. of the fact that down deep in her heart, she was glad that Hannah had failed to observe that post-mark. For once she had really enjoyed a tea at The Maples.

cemetery of Mount Auburn, in Cambridge, Massachusetts, is a granite headstone, bearing the inscription:

ЈАСОВ АВВОТТ

1803-1879

and nothing more.

One who knows the spirit of the man whose body crumbles below, feels a propriety in the choice of New England granite for the material of the headstone. For this man, Jacob Abbott, was of the New England cultus, in all but every atom of his spiritual compounding and the substructure of his lofty nature was laid in spiritual granite. Jacob Abbott was not only a deepfounded and lofty man but he was also pre-eminently just and wonderfully calm, gentle, sagacious and unpretending. In its sheer simplicity,

See p 396.

the headstone eminently typifies the

man.

I pause here to say what forty years ago would not have needed saying; that Jacob Abbott was a writer, New England born, whose influence with youth and with thoughtful adults in America, and

to a large extent abroad, was very great and very sound from 1830, or somewhat earlier than that, to thirty or thirty-five years later. No doubt his influence was potent after this and doubtless in various recondite disguises it is strongly operant now; but its open manifestations were greatest in the period named.

Jacob Abbott came of good New England stock.

Born at Hallowell, Maine, in 1803, he graduated at Bowdoin, taught in Portland Academy and (as Professor of Mathematics and Natural Philosophy) at Amherst College.