And for this opportunity to show my appreciation of their lives of self-denial in the service of others, I devoutly thank Gk)d."
A shadow darkened the door of the deserted schoolroom.
"Who is it? And what is wanted?" asked Jean, with a start.
"It is I,—the Reverend Thomas Rogers," said a voice, as, stepping out of the shadow, the preacher met her face to face.
"I have just completed my day's work, and was about to shut up shop," she said, moving toward the door.
"Very well. I will walk homeward with you, if I may."
"No, you won't!" piped a tremulous, complaining voice; and Mrs. Rogers stepped between them and the doorsill.
"I came to see Miss Jean about a change in the management of the Sunday-school," said the preacher, meekly.
"And I've come to remind you that you must chop some stove-wdod and milk the cow."
The voice was not tremulous now, but commanding. " I'll teach you to be running after the schoolma'am at unseemly hours!" she said with a vehemence that startled Jean, who had thought her the personification of submission and humility. "And I'll teach you to be courting my husband. Miss Jean!"
"You can divest yourself of all anxiety on that score, Mrs. Rogers. I never saw the time when I would have dreamed of ' courting' the Reverend Thomas Rogers, even before he was married; and I wouldn't ' courtany woman's husband."
"To be explicit," said the preacher, in a submissive tone, "I think it is high time for the pastor of this church to manage his Sunday-school. Miss Jean's methods are not strictly orthodox. I didn't mean to speak of this to
