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One brilliant Sunday Mr. Wells paced up and down in the sunshine before his little church. An ardent lover of nature he was admiring the beautiful shades of the foliage on either hand and the gorgeous masses of golden-rod that lifted feathery heads to the sun. Presently seeing two or three vehicles approaching he retired into the church. The sound was an ominous warning to Moses, to finish his breakfast with all possible speed. The first sign of return to health was indicated by a slight querulousness that invalids seem to claim as their prerogative. The convalescent wanted books and pictures, her discarded favorite, Hannah, stiff with long neglect, and her pets individually and collectively. Then having run the gamut of dumb playmates, she called for her beloved friends..
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“My racer has only one eye anyways,” said Betty defiantly as she twined a piece of nasturtium vine round the noble brow of the victor. He laughed coarsely. “George Smith’s kid, all right. You’ve got the same high way with you.” “Personally, I should be agreeably disposed to requesting Mr. Wopp to officiate,” answered the lady addressed. He outrivalled all his efforts of the week, being recalled again and again. Betty was delighted with the nods and smiles that the great man was directing towards Nell and herself and Mrs. Newman; but from his attitude and the blushes of Nell, more than one in the audience knew who was the fountain of his inspiration. The hopes of one stalwart young man in particular rapidly fell to zero..
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