pletion. The voice, the shoulders, the smile,
the words, the lips, the arms, the whole
mind and body, were rounding to maturity.

"Why do you never come to church in
the morning?" asks Miss Le Baron, wheel-
ing around on her piano-stool suddenly.
"You are only there at night, with your
mother."

"I go only on her account," replies David,
truthfully. "In the morning I am so tired
with the week's work that I rest at home.
I ought to go, I know."

"Yes, you ought," returns the young
woman, gravely. "It doesn't really rest
one to lie in bed like that. I've tried it at
boarding-school. It was no good whatever."

"Should you advise me," asks David,
in a confiding tone, "to arise early on
Sunday?"

The girl blushes a little. "By all means!"
she cries, her eyes twinkling, "and -- and
come to church. Our morning sermons are
really very much better than those in the
evening." And she plays a waltz, and what
with the music and the warmth of the room