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thee would come, Cousin Mar' Ellen; ' knew no Fourth-Day opening. The robins that I know, at least."
and the bees were there, the sun lay as yelShe was not prepared for the reply low on the purple mantle of the blue grass. which met her. Cousin Mary Ellen, The church itself, gray, silent, self-effachabitually silent even beyond the habit ofing, stood as of old, and in the corner of the Friends, now surprised even herself. the old, gray wall there reclined the slen
"I feel to speak to thee, Aunt Mar' der headstone with its white, broken lily. Alice,” she began. “We should sit there Warrenford was stunned, and for weeks only in harmony, as Friends."
remained so. “But thee knows I am right,” inter- Now, as this pathetic confusion of faith rupted the older woman.
had arisen by reason of argument over a “It may be, Aunt Mar' Alice. We little child, what more fitting than that a have sat with thee many years. But I am little child should in turn lead all these thinking of that little child."
perturbed ones out of their confusion? It was schism. After these many years, Somewhere it was written thus, and by elements other than those of time were Some One that mission was given to Dorocoming into these gray and quiet lives. thy, child and grandchild of Quaker parThe older woman drew herself up, tall ents, almost the only child or grandchild and stern, somber in her frowning rebuke. in all Warrenford. The others faced her as stoutly as did Dorothy made not wholly a Quaker ever Hicksite face Orthodox or Orthodox portrait that evening in late summer when face Church of England. All were silent she escaped from her guardians and ran for a time, and silence lay all about them. off up the curving road toward the top of The bees droned on upon their errands, a the hill. Her frock was short, but sophisrobin chirped in the oak beyond; but that ticated, her hat a bright red, her little was all. The sun shone warm and kind, coat also red. Dorothy was eight, and acted Alecking the dark green of the grass in it. It would be well-nigh impossible for golden bars beneath the boughs of the so bright a figure to pass on the deserted oaks.
street unobserved, even were not Dorothy Slow, gray, sad, their heads bowed, the known to all Warrenford, observed by three passed, but spoke no more. Side by most who dwelt there, and loved as well. side they turned and walked slowly down It was quite natural that Aunt Mary the hill. Aunt Mary Alice did not ex- Alice, passing at the foot of the street, tend her hand and say, in the fashion of should catch sight of Dorothy as she ran the Friends, "Farewell," at Miss Lucy off up the hill. Now, since there was once Maxwell's gate, but stalked on down the one automobile on that hill, Warrenford street, her face turned squarely away from dwelt in fear that there might some day the other two, who tarried. Cousin Mary be another. If this should be while DoroEllen, however, turned back even as she thy was there alone! Aunt Mary Alice left the little gate.
hurried her elderly steps. "Thee sees Lucy Maxwell," she began. But when she made the upper turn of "It is a question of tongue. In many the road and came in view of the open tongues, and in dialects of those tongues, space about the meeting-house, Dorothy as thee well knows, Lucy Maxwell, and was not to be seen. From the interior of as Aunt Mar' Alice should know also, I the meeting-house there came the sound of may say, 'Beloved.' If only Hiram Far- happy, childish song, the first, perhaps, well had had it made in gray, I would ever heard within those gray walls. Doroagree with thee entirely, yes, Lucy Max- thy, finding the door unlocked, had gone well. But if we may not sit in harmony, upon a journey of exploration. Aunt I also agree with thee; then let us part Mary Alice also passed within the door. and go our ways."
Now it chanced that Cousin Mary And so indeed it came to pass. On next Ellen was headed for the grocery store to Fourth-Day noon, the three doors failed to buy some allspice for the making of her frame their plain-garbed figures. For the watermelon-rind preserves, when all at first time in nearly two hundred years, as once she saw Aunt Mary Alice passing best tradition has it, the weathered door along the curved road well toward he of the Little Stone Church of Warrenford top of the hill where lay the meeting
house. Not having seen Dorothy, Cousin Mary Ellen could assign only one reason for this act of Aunt Mary Alice: the latter was going alone to the meetinghouse! Now, that must not be. Were they not sisters, after all?
It chanced also that Miss Lucy Maxwell, who was attending her flower-beds near the gate at the end of the little brick walk, looked down the street just as Cousin Mary Ellen turned out of sight at the entrance of the curving road. A sudden flush of hesitation, of resolution, came upon Miss Lucy Maxwell's face. Cousin Mary Ellen must be going alone to the meeting-house. Ah, were they not sisters, after all? Miss Lucy Maxwell turned into the house and emerged an instant later, tying the strings of her dove-colored bonnet. Her feet flew up the hill faster than ever they had before.
So this is how Cousin Mary Ellen found Aunt Mary Alice when she timidly
ED sentry in my breast, Sleep! for I have need of rest. The morns and noons are fugitive; I seek more peace than night can give. Though like a lark thou singest,
The bird knows nesting-time; Though like a bell thou ringest,
Bells, too, must halt their chime. Why dost thou urge thy clamor
Within these walls of flesh? It seems thy pauseless hammer
Destroys, then builds afresh. Though thou throbbest like a drum, Peace strikes e'en the tambour dumb. Though sullen, hungry, wild Be thy crying, like a child; Yet when its mouth is filled, It sleeps. Then be thou stilled. Go rest thee, crimson sentinel; The hour is come, and all is well.
THE RED SENTRY
BY HERMAN SCHEFFAUER
pushed open the door, and how Miss Lucy Maxwell found them both when she also timidly pushed open the door. The three looked at one another; and as they looked, Dorothy ceased her prattle, and gazed in turn from one to another of the Society of Friends. Quietly, as of yore, the three sank into seats. Silence remained upon them all for some time. At length one of them rose, moved by the Spirit to say some word.
But which one of the three it was who rose, or what was said, I do not know. All I know is that when they came out of the door somewhat later their arms were about one another and their eyes were wet. The red hat and coat of Dorothy showed very plainly against their quiet, dove-colored garb as they passed down the old steps. When they turned into the curving road, each of them had a hand for Dorothy, Defender of the Faith. The Society of Friends was quite at peace.
The vigil that I keep
To quire through the land;
Toll to the ringer's hand. Faithful, unpausing, peaceless, My fountain in the dark Leaps high while I guard ceaseless Life's throned and templed spark. Let my stout drum, unafraid, Beat until my hand be stayed; If my cry be rash and wild, Learn its meaning from the childLearn, though fierce the battle swell, I must guard this citadel. Patience! I have a trust to keep; Then I shall rest-and thou shalt sleep.
BY L. FRANK TOOKER
Author of “Under Rocking Skies,” “The Call of the Sea,” etc.
WITH PICTURES BY CHARLES J. POST
liddle hacienda iss very becoming his home in the Cape Verd Islands. It
to the Señora Pascala, nicht wahr?” was the hour for sentiment. It was Schwartz who spoke. We had We murmured a heartfelt assent to seated ourselves on the wide, tile-paved Schwartz's query, and he, nodding his gallery, Schwartz, Passos, Barzilla, and head, went on: I, ostensibly to watch the gorgeous passing “Lieber Gott! does she nodt make it to of the day. The upper air was still lumi- blossom like the rose ? Dere iss no more nous, and high in its white radiance a sin- the loneliness." gle vulture, like a tiny, black scroll, “But when she shall go backward seemed painted on the sky; to the east, the to Pasaquimento, shall it not be of a violet peaks of the Andes rose as insub- loneliness the more sadder ?” suggested stantial as clouds: but the clumps of Passos. greenery below the house looked almost "I t'ink dat also," acquiesced Schwartz. black, and in the hush of the twilight, as “Yas, dat iss so. The hacienda shall be she moved about the lawn, the laugh of lonely; but dat picture I shall haf mit the Señora Pascala came up to us like the
me." sound of a silver bell. She wore a crimson gown, with a black mantilla over her hair, and I fancy our interest in the twilight had paled before the charming picture she made.
Somewhere on the lawn below her, screened from us by the shrubbery, were seated her daughter and Captain Miranda, and it was with them that she talked as she moved from flower to flower. Two days before we had driven out from Pasaquimento with Schwartz, and
it was vaguely understood to be our last holiday together before the marriage of Captain Miranda and the Señora Pascala, and their departure on his vessel for
"AND THEN THEY WENT ON IN FULL CRY"
Drawn by Charles J. Post