Lucy heard Mr. Beebe's voice running through the litany to a minute congregation. Even their church, built upon the slope of the hill so artfully, with its beautiful raised transept and its spire of silvery shingle — even their church had lost its charm; and the thing one never talked about — religion — was fading like all the other things.

She followed the maid into the Rectory.

Would she object to sitting in Mr. Beebe's study? There was only that one fire.

She would not object.

Some one was there already, for Lucy heard the words: “A lady to wait, sir.”

Old Mr. Emerson was sitting by the fire, with his foot upon a gout-stool.