there was a rustle at the church door, and a thrill of curiosity and
admiration passed over the expectant congregation. It was the entrance
of the Dows party, Miss Sally well to the fore. She was in her new
clothes, the latest fashion in Louisville, the latest but two in Paris
and New York.

It was over twenty years ago. I shall not imperil the effect of that
lovely vision by recalling to the eye of to-day a fashion of yesterday.
Enough, that it enabled her to set her sweet face and vapory golden hair
in a horseshoe frame of delicate flowers, and to lift her oval chin
out of a bewildering mist of tulle. Nor did a certain light polonaise
conceal the outlines of her charming figure. Even those who were
constrained to whisper to each other that "Miss Sally" must "be now
going on twenty-five," did so because she still carried the slender
graces of seventeen. The organ swelled as if to welcome her; as she took
her seat a ray of sunlight, that would have been cruel and searching to
any other complexion, drifted across the faint pink of her cheeks,
and nestling in her nebulous hair became itself transfigured. A few
stained-glass Virtues on the windows did not come out of this effulgence
as triumphantly, and it was small wonder that the devotional eyes of the
worshipers wandered from them to the face of Sally Dows.

When the service was over, as the congregation filed slowly into the
aisle, Courtland slipped mutely behind her. As she reached the porch he
said in an undertone:

"I brought my horse and buggy. I thought you might possibly allow me
to drive"--But he was stopped by a distressful knitting of her golden
brows. "No," she said quickly, but firmly, "you must not--it won't do."
As Courtland hesitated in momentary perplexity, she smiled sweetly: