Loath to disturb them, I stood smiling, silent; and presently Dorothy, without raising her eyes, called on Samuel to read his morning lesson, and he began, breathing heavily:

"I know that G.o.d is wroth at me For I was born in sin; My heart is so exceeding vile d.a.m.nation dwells therein; Awake I sin, asleep I sin, I sin with every breath, When Adam fell he went to h.e.l.l And d.a.m.ned us all to death!"

He stopped short, scowling, partly from fright, I think.

"That teaches us to obey G.o.d," said Ruyven, severely, dipping his brush into the pink paint-cake.

"What's the good of obeying G.o.d if we're all to go to h.e.l.l?" asked Cecile.

"We're not all going to h.e.l.l," said Dorothy, calmly. "G.o.d saves His elect."

"Who are the elect?" demanded Samuel, faintly hopeful.

"n.o.body knows," replied Cecile, grimly; "but I guess--"

"Benny," broke in Dorothy, "read your lesson! Cecile, stop your chatter!" And Benny, cheerful and sceptical, read his lines:

"When by thpectators I behold What beauty doth adorn me, Or in a glath when I behold How thweetly G.o.d did form me.

Hath G.o.d thuch comeliness bethowed And on me made to dwell?-- What pity thuch a pretty maid Ath I thoud go to h.e.l.l!"

And Benny giggled.

"Benjamin," said Cecile, in an awful voice, "are you not terrified at what you read?"

"Huh!" said Benny, "I'm not a 'pretty maid'; I'm a boy."

"It's all the same, little dunce!" insisted Cecile.

"Doeth G.o.d thay little boyth are born to be d.a.m.ned?" he asked, uneasily.

"No, no," interrupted Dorothy; "G.o.d saves His elect, I tell you. Don't you remember what He says?

"'You sinners are, and such a share As sinners may expect; Such you shall have; for I do save None but my own elect.'

"And you see," she added, confidently, "I think we all are elect, and there's nothing to be afraid of. Benny, stop sniffing!"

"Are you sure?" asked Cecile, gloomily.

Dorothy, st.i.tching serenely, answered: "I am sure G.o.d is fair."

"Oh, everybody knows that," observed Cecile. "What we want to know is, what does He mean to do with us."

"If we're good," added Samuel, fervently.

"He will d.a.m.n us, perhaps," said Ruyven, sucking his paint-brush and looking critically at his work.

"d.a.m.n us? Why?" inquired Dorothy, raising her eyes.

"Oh, for all that sin we were born in," said Ruyven, absently.

"But that's not fair," said Dorothy.

"Are you smarter than a clergyman?" sneered Ruyven.

Dorothy spread the white silk stocking over one knee. "I don't know,"

she sighed, "sometimes I think I am."

"Pride," commented Cecile, complacently. "Pride is sin, so there you are, Dorothy."

"There you are, Dorothy!" said I, laughing from the doorway; and, "Oh, Cousin Ormond!" they all chorused, scrambling up to greet me.

"Have a care!" cried Dorothy. "That is my wedding petticoat! Oh, he's slopped water on it! Benny, you dreadful villain!"

"No, he hasn't," said I, coming out to greet her and Cecile, with Samuel and Benny hanging to my belt, and Harry fast hold of one arm. "And what's all this about wedding finery? Is there a bride in this vicinity?"

Dorothy held out a stocking. "A bride's white silken hose," she said, complacently.

"Embroidered on the knee with the bride's initials," added Cecile, proudly.

"Yours, Dorothy?" I demanded.

"Yes, but I shall not wear them for ages and ages. I told you so last night."

"But I thought Dorothy had best make ready," remarked Cecile. "Dorothy is to carry that fan and wear those slippers and this petticoat and the white silk stockings when she weds Sir George."

"Sir George who?" I asked, bluntly.

"Why, Sir George Covert. Didn't you know?"

I looked at Dorothy, incensed without a reason.

"Why didn't you tell me?" I asked, ungraciously.

"Why didn't you ask me?" she replied, a trifle hurt.

I was silent.

Cecile said: "I hope that Dorothy will marry him soon. I want to see how she looks in this petticoat."

"Ho!" sneered Harry, "you just want to wear one like it and be a bridesmaid and primp and give yourself airs. I know you!"

"Sir George Covert is a good fellow," remarked Ruyven, with a patronizing nod at Dorothy; "but I always said he was too old for you.

You should see how gray are his temples when he wears no powder."

"He has fine eyes," murmured Cecile.

"He's too old; he's forty," repeated Ruyven.

"His legs are shapely," added Cecile, sentimentally.