Elizabeth arose early the next morning, feeling at peace with all the world. For the first time in her life she felt herself an important member of the family. Her aunt had distinguished¹ her by special friendly notice, and had omitted to scold her when she went to bed the night before. Besides, it was Sunday, and on the first day of the week she almost always escaped disaster. First, her aunt was more genial² on Sunday, because the family was on its best behavior that day, and came a little nearer to being genteel. Then Elizabeth was clothed in a long, spotlessly clean, dun-colored pinafore, starched³ to the extremity⁴ of discomfort⁵, and her spirits, always colored by her surroundings, were also subdued⁶ and confined.  
The Gordons assembled for breakfast early on Sunday morning. Miss Gordon saw that the Sabbath was strictly⁷ kept, but she believed the idea of rest might be carried to indulgence, especially with young people. So, on this particular morning, breakfast was at the usual hour. Indeed, it was a little early, owing to the fact that Sarah Emily, rejoiced at her reunion with the family, had arisen betimes and broken the Sabbath by making a fine batch⁸ of breakfast biscuits. Sarah Emily always sang at her work and had aroused the household, and brought down the stern displeasure of Miss Gordon, who forbade the unholy viands⁹ to be brought to the table.
 
The young Gordons assembled, sniffing¹⁰ hungrily and regretfully at the pleasant odor. Sarah Emily caught their glances and made a sympathetic grimace¹¹.
 
Mary giggled¹², but Elizabeth looked severe. She was in her best Sabbath mood and felt that Sarah Emily was not at all genteel, nor Mary either. It really gave one such a nice feeling to know one was genteel. Involuntarily she glanced at her aunt for approbation¹⁴. But Aunt Margaret was looking at Annie, with a strange expression in her eyes, an almost apologetic look Elizabeth would have thought if Aunt Margaret could ever have been in such a mood. But that was quite impossible with one who was always right. She was looking particularly handsome this morning in her black silk dress, with her jet earrings¹⁵, and the knot of white lace at her throat. Elizabeth gazed at her in profound admiration¹⁶, and then at Annie with some anxiety. Annie was looking pale this morning. Elizabeth wished she had not given away all her maple¹⁷ sugar to the little boys last night; a bite might have been such a comfort to poor Annie, and she was looking sadly in need of comfort.
 
When the plates of oatmeal porridge and the big pile of bread-and-butter had disappeared, Annie handed her father his Bible and psalm¹⁸-book and they all joined in family worship. The little ceremony opened with the singing of a paraphrase¹⁹:
 
"O God of Bethel, by whose Hand
Thy people still are fed."
The windows were open and the breath of the apple-blossoms came floating in. The bees, droning over the honey-suckle in the garden below, and the song sparrow on the cherry-bough above, both joined in the hymn²⁰ to the great Father who had made the beautiful world.
 
Then Mr. Gordon read a chapter; a wonderful chapter, Elizabeth felt. She was in perfect accord with the beauty and peace of the Sabbath Day and every word went to her heart:
 
 
"The wilderness²¹ and the solitary²² place shall be glad for them; and the desert shall rejoice and blossom as the rose. It shall blossom abundantly, and rejoice even with joy and singing. The glory of Lebanon shall be given unto it, the excellency of Carmel and Sharon——"
 
 
Elizabeth had no idea of its meaning, but its beauty, with some vague hint of its eternal promise of love and joy, made her child's heart swell²³. She was dismayed to feel her eyes beginning to smart with the rising tears. She did not guess why, but she could have cried out with both joy and pain at the majestic²⁴ triumph of the close:
 
 
"And the ransomed²⁵ of the Lord shall return and come to Zion with songs and everlasting²⁶ joy upon their heads. They shall obtain joy and gladness, and sorrow and sighing shall flee away."
 
 
She struggled with her tears. If John should see them! He would wonder why she was crying, and she could never tell him. John would not understand. That was the tragedy of Elizabeth's life. One could never tell things, for nobody understood.
 
She was relieved when they knelt in prayer and she could hide her tears in a corner of the old sofa. Prayers were very much longer on Sundays than on other mornings, but, though the boys might fidget a little, the most active member of the family never moved. Elizabeth's soul was carried away far above any bodily discomfort. But not even the smallest Gordon made a sound. There had been a dreadful day once when Jamie and Archie, kneeling at one chair with their heads together, had been caught red-handed playing "Put your finger in the crow's nest"; but since then their aunt had knelt between them and the crime had not been repeated.
 
Prayers ended, and the few household duties attended to, Mr. Gordon shut himself in his study, and the children sat out on the side-porch and studied their Sunday-school lesson, their catechism, and their portion of the 119th Psalm, which Miss Gordon had given them to memorize.
 
Elizabeth had no trouble with her Golden Text or the Psalm, but the catechism was an insupportable burden. She was always appearing with it before her aunt, certain she could "say it now," only to turn away in disgrace. She sat on the green bench beside John and droned over her allotted²⁸ portion. John was far ahead wrestling with What is required in the commandments, while poor Elizabeth plodded²⁹ behind, struggling with the question as to Wherein consisted the sinfulness of that estate whereinto man fell. She rhymed over the profound words in a meaningless jargon³¹:
 
 
"The sinfulness of that estate whereunto man fell, consists in the guilt³² of Adam's first sin, the want of original righteousness, and the corruption³³ of his whole nature, which is commonly called original sin, together with all actual transgressions³⁴ which proceed from it."
 
 
She strove to keep her mind upon it, but the exaltation of the prayer-time had passed, and the vision of Mrs. Jarvis obtruded³⁵ itself on her Sabbath thoughts. She drove it away—as with tightly-shut eyes and wrinkled brow and swaying body she attempted to get through the answer unaided. But she stuck fast at "the want of original righteousness" and again at "original sin," and was stumbling blindly over "all actual transgressions" when there came a wicked whisper in her ear.
 
"Lizzie," hissed³⁶ John, "there's 'The Rowdy'!"
 
Elizabeth's eyes flew open, and the sinfulness of man's estate flew away. John had turned his grave face towards her, lit up with a quick smile. Elizabeth flashed back at him the same smile, a sudden gleam of white even teeth in a rather generous red mouth. Brother and sister were very much alike in their smiles, but only here, for John's face was solemn almost to dourness³⁷, while Elizabeth's countenance³⁸ was full of light and animation³⁹.
 
"The Rowdy" was enough to provoke laughter even on the Sabbath and under Aunt Margaret's nose. He was the robin⁴⁰ whose chief shouting-place was the hawthorn⁴¹ bush in the lane. John and Elizabeth had so named him because he always made such a noise, leaping about and calling "Hi, Hi! Whee! Whoo—Hoo!" in a most rowdy manner indeed.
 
They had named many other familiar birds in The Dale fields that spring, and now Elizabeth gave a significant nod towards the orchard⁴² to announce the song of another favorite. This robin sang from the top of the big duchess tree that peeped over the wall into the front garden. His was a plaintive⁴³, quiet song, quite unlike The Rowdy's. They had noticed the pathetic little chant one evening when the schoolmaster sat beside Annie on the front porch. Mr. Coulson had remarked that there was a robin in the orchard who was singing the anthem⁴⁴ of the Exile of Erin. But John declared in private to Elizabeth that it wasn't anything of the kind. Anyone could hear he was saying "Oh, wirra-wurra! Wirra-wurra!" just the way old Mrs. Teeter did when she recounted her troubles of the early pioneer days, or when Oro's Orator⁴⁵ had been fighting again. So to John and Elizabeth the robin of the duchess tree was known as "Granny Teeter." They listened to him now, complaining away to the pink apple-blossoms; and, knowing it was very wicked and dangerous to laugh just then, they held themselves in convulsions of silent mirth.
 
Elizabeth forgot all about the sinfulness of man's estate as well as the gorgeousness of Mrs. Jarvis's in listening for sounds of other old friends. There was a pair of meadow larks⁴⁶ that had their nest in the pasture field just on the other side of the lane, and now one of them was mounted in his favorite elm, pouring forth⁴⁷ his delicious notes in a descending⁴⁸ scale of sweetness: "Dear, hear, I am near." Farther down, near the line of birches, in a feathery larch⁴⁹ tree, sang a peculiar⁵⁰ song sparrow, who pounded four times on a loud silver bell to attract attention before he started his little melody. Then there was a crowd of jolly bob-o'-links over yonder in the clover-meadow who danced and trilled, and a pair of blue-birds in the orchard who talked to each other in sweet, soft notes. There was a loud and joyous⁵¹ oriole, proud of his golden coat, blowing up his ringing little trumpet⁵² from the pine tree near the gate, and ever so many flickers⁵⁴, all gorgeously dressed in red and yellow and every color their gaudy⁵⁵ taste could suggest, each with his little box of money, Elizabeth explained, which he rattled⁵⁶ noisily, just to attract attention when he couldn't sing. But the favorite was a gray cat-bird that sang from the bass-wood tree at the back of the vegetable garden. They liked him best, because he was so naughty and badly behaved, always sneaking⁵⁷ round the backyard, and never coming out where there was an audience, as The Rowdy did. And then he could beat everybody, and at his own song, too! He was at them all now, one after the other—robin, song sparrow, oriole, flicker⁵³, everything—with a medley⁵⁸ of trills and variations worked in just to show that he had a whole lot of music of his own if he only cared to use it.
 
John's silent laughter was quite safe, but Elizabeth's was of the explosive variety. A chuckle⁵⁹ escaped which caused Aunt Margaret to look up from her Sunday-school paper, and the two culprits immediately dived back to their tasks. Elizabeth felt how wicked she was to have allowed her thoughts to wander thus, and for a time gave such good attention to her question that she arrived at original sin with only two slips.
 
But Mrs. Jarvis came back again, arrayed in all the grandeur⁶⁰ in which Elizabeth's imagination always clothed her. She planned how she would act when that great lady came. She would walk very slowly and solemnly into the parlor⁶¹, just the way Aunt Margaret did, and bow very gravely. Then she would say those French words Jean always used since she had been attending the High School in Cheemaun, "Commay voo, porty voo." That was French for "Good afternoon, Mrs. Jarvis"; and of course Mrs. Jarvis would know French, and be very much impressed. She strove to weave a pious⁶² thread of catechism into the wicked fabric⁶³ of her thoughts—"the sinfulness of that estate whereunto man fell"—perhaps Mrs. Jarvis would ask her to go for a walk with her down the lane, or even a drive in her carriage—"consists in the guilt of Adam's first sin"—of course she would talk only of books, and not let her see the playhouse she and Mary had made in the lane. That was very childish. She would tell how she had read "The Vicar of Wakefield" and "Old Mortality"—of course father had read them to her, but it was all the same thing—and "Hiawatha" and "The Lamplighter"—"the want of original corruption and the righteousness of his whole nature." And surely Mrs. Jarvis would think she was genteel and know that the wild streak⁶⁴ had completely disappeared—"together with all actual transgressions which proceed from it." Elizabeth then and there solemnly vowed⁶⁵ that she would neither run nor jump, nor climb a fence, not even the little low one between their pasture-field and Tom Teeter's, until Mrs. Jarvis's coming.
 
And so the morning passed slowly in a struggle between a restless body, a restless mind, and a restless soul, all tending in different directions, and at last they stood in a row before their aunt to recite their morning's task. Even little Jamie had his verse of Scripture⁶⁷ to lisp, and was patted on the head when he stammered⁶⁸ out:
 
"De people dat sat in dawkness saw a dwate night."
 
Everyone acquitted⁷⁰ himself well except Elizabeth. The catechism refused to disentangle itself from the jumble⁷¹ of bird-voices and dream-voices with which it was mixed; and she went out to dinner with hanging head and tear-dimmed eyes.
 
The light lunch of cold boiled beef and potatoes was soon disposed of, and then the hour for starting to Sunday school had arrived, bringing with it a great relief, and making Elizabeth completely forget her troubles.
 
The Gordons had an old speckled gray horse and a queer basket phaeton, left by the eccentric Englishman in The Dale stables years before. Mr. Gordon used them to convey him to the town hall, some miles distant, where the township council meetings were held, but Miss Gordon always drove to church in this family carriage, accompanied by Malcolm, and with little Jamie on her knee, while the remainder of the family walked.
 
The church, like the school, lay a couple of miles south of The Dale, away at the other side of a great hill. There were two roads leading thither⁷². The one used by the school children on week-days was called the Short Cut. It ran down The Dale lane, crossed the pond beside MacAllister's mill, went up the opposite bank, over a wild half-cleared stretch of land called The Slash⁷³, through old Sandy McLachlan's wood, and by way of his rickety gate out on to the public highway a few yards from the school. It was much shorter this way than going "down the line," though strange to say it took far longer to traverse it on a schoolday, for it was a very enjoyable road indeed, from which one was ever making side excursions after berries or nuts or wild grapes, and which admitted of endless ways of beguiling⁷⁴ dull time, and rendering⁷⁵ oneself late for school.
 
For various reasons the church-going population took to the public highway on Sabbaths. Those who drove went this way from necessity, and those who didn't went because they were always picked up before they had gone half a mile. Besides, parents had long since learned that Sabbath clothes as well as Sabbath decorum were apt to suffer from the conveniences of the Short Cut.
 
William Gordon alone took this solitary road on Sabbath afternoons, for he loved the loneliness and quiet of the woods. This arrangement suited everyone except Elizabeth. Her heart always suffered a pang⁷⁶ as they all turned up the lane together, and her father went away alone in the opposite direction. Once she had begged so hard to accompany him that he had yielded, and she had walked by his side, holding his hand, in silent sympathy, all the way over the sunny fields and through the cool green shadows of the woods. She had been quiet and good and he had said she was his little comforter, but Elizabeth had never gone again. It was not that she had found the walk dull in comparison to the companionship of the regular highway, for Elizabeth would have walked through a fiery⁷⁷ furnace with her father in preference to any other road. But that wise older self had told her that her father preferred to be alone. She could not have told how she knew, but she was seldom mistaken in her intuition and followed it. And so, though it wrung⁷⁸ her heart to see him go alone, she merely watched him with loving eyes, until his bowed head and thin, stooped shoulders disappeared from view in the willowy ravine.
 
Those who walked started only a few minutes before the phaeton, for if they were not picked up by Martin's big double buggy on the Champlain Road, then the MacAllisters would take them in at the corner, or they would be gathered to the bosoms⁷⁹ of the Wully Johnstones before they had gone many rods down the line.
 
The Martins were a trifle late to-day and, to Elizabeth's joy, they reached the corner where four great elms stretched out their sweeping⁸⁰ arms to each other just as MacAllister's ample three-seated buggy came lumbering⁸¹ along. Charles Stuart was there on the front seat beside his father, to be sure; but Mother MacAllister was in the back seat alone. The girls climbed in, Sarah Emily and all, and Archie and John took their places in Wully Johnstone's vehicle that had just emerged from their lane on to the public highway.
 
Elizabeth sat in her favorite place, close up to Mother MacAllister. At first she decided⁸² she would not speak to Charles Stuart, nor look near him. Then, recalling her undignified conduct in the ball game with him, she felt ashamed. It would be no use to act haughtily⁸³ now, she reflected with a sigh. "I wish I hadn't forgotten," she said to herself. "It's so much easier to forget than forgive." She finally decided to treat Charles Stuart politely but distantly. She must let him see that he had behaved very badly indeed and that, though she might be kind and forgiving, all was over between them.
 
Just then Charles Stuart turned in his seat and whispered, "Look, Lizzie, look at Trip!"
 
Elizabeth turned in the direction he indicated. Trip had as usual been forbidden to follow the family to church, but there he was trotting⁸⁴ along the roadside, stopping every now and then to lift up one paw and look inquiringly after his master. Elizabeth returned Charles Stuart's glance and they giggled.
 
Trip was really a very dear and funny little dog and she was very fond of him. To be sure, he was often wild and bad just like Charles Stuart, but then he was so neat and cute and frisky⁸⁵ and altogether lovable. He had a cunning face, queerly marked. Round one eye was a large black patch, which gave him a disreputable air, and his habit of putting his little head on one side and looking supernaturally wise, just as though he could not see out of the bad black eye, further emphasized his naughty appearance. He was the noisiest thing of his size that could be found too. He could raise more row over a groundhog's hole, Tom Teeter said, than an army would over the discovery of an ambushed⁸⁶ enemy. But to-day he was trotting meekly⁸⁷ by the roadside, unmindful of chipmunks⁸⁸ or swallows, for he knew right well he was doing wrong, and felt it was safer to be quiet.
 
"What'll you do with him?" asked Elizabeth anxiously.
 
"Wait till I catch him at the church. I'll make him scoot for home, you bet."
 
Elizabeth looked worried. "Oh, Charles Stuart, you won't hurt him?"
 
"I'll make him mind me, anyhow," said Charles Stuart firmly, and Elizabeth knew from past experience that it would be useless to interfere⁸⁹. Nevertheless, she felt very sorry for the little dog trotting along towards sure disappointment, and once again she quite forgot that she had intended to be cold and distant to Trip's master.
 
The old buggy rattled along through alternate sunshine and shade. Elizabeth soon forgot Trip and sat gazing off over hill and valley, not even hearing what Annie and Jean were telling Mother MacAllister about their new dresses. She was far above such thoughts. They had dipped down into the hollow where the stream flowed brown and cool beneath the bridge and had begun to climb the big hill where the view of the lovely green earth grew wider at each step. As they went up and up, the rolling hills seemed gradually to fall away, leaving a great space of deep blue sky touched with white bunches of dazzling clouds, for there always seemed more sky in Oro than in any other place. Now the long thread of the little river lying across the valley they had left, gleamed out blue and bright, now it disappeared, and before them another gleam of blue above far-off treetops shone forth, where Lake Simcoe lay sparkling in the sunlight. There was a little green island away out on its shining floor, and Elizabeth, with her dreamy eyes fixed⁹⁰ upon it, thought it must look like Heaven. Then it all vanished, sinking like a beautiful dream-lake behind the treetops as they descended⁹¹ into the wooded valley. Elizabeth sighed happily. Here the air smelt⁹² cool and sweet, a mingling⁹³ of damp earth, fragrant⁹⁴ blossoms, running water, and wood-violets. The loveliness of the world of forest and sky would on ordinary occasions have driven her to wild abandon, sent her flying over fields and fences as far removed as possible from the genteel. But to-day was Sunday, and Mother MacAllister's arm was about her, and her spirit was filled with a great content.
 
She softly hummed the psalm with which they so often opened the church service down there in the hollow:
 
"O, come let us sing to the Lord,
To Him our voices raise.
With joyful⁹⁵ noise let us the rock
Of our salvation⁹⁶ praise."
And from the little basket phaeton behind, Miss Gordon, watching her charges, wondered what foolish thoughts were passing through Lizzie's flighty little head. It could not even approach her consciousness that the child's very soul was raised in rapturous worship.
 
Down the hill slowly wound the little procession. Elizabeth looked back. Behind her aunt was Martin's buggy. She could see Susie, one of her bosom-friends, on the front seat beside her father. But she did not wave her hand, because it was Sunday and Aunt Margaret was looking.
 
The little church in the hollow opposite the schoolhouse came in sight as they emerged from the woods at Sandy McLachlan's gate. It was a straight, clapboard structure, painted white, and standing⁹⁷ in a forlorn-looking little field bare of trees. At one side stretched a long shed; at the other a grass-grown graveyard⁹⁸ with leaning headstones. Inside there were also evidences that beauty had been sacrificed to economy in the building of Forest Glen Church. It was severely⁹⁹ plain, with bare white walls, and a flat and smoky ceiling. There was a big oblong stove, the same shape as the church, at the end near the door, and a little organ and a pulpit-table on a small platform at the other end.
 
The only attempt at decoration was a big bunch of cherry blossoms someone had placed upon the organ, and four mottoes, worked in colored wools and framed in Lake Simcoe shells, which hung upon the walls.
 
Sunday school was held during the hour before the church service, the two congregations being very much alike. For an ideal state of affairs prevailed in Forest Glen. People did not send their children to Sunday school; they took them. Noah Clegg was the superintendent¹⁰¹, and old Sandy McLachlan assistant. Noah operated at the end where the platform stood, while Sandy officiated at the door, ushering¹⁰² in the pupils, and often during the session, calling out instructions to Noah from his end of the building. Sandy's chief duty was to let people into the church and keep out the dogs, which like the people showed a laudable desire to attend divine service, especially in the winter. Sandy was armed with a big stick, and if any canine¹⁰³ approached it, woe¹⁰⁴ betide him. He and Noah Clegg were fast friends, so the double-headed organization worked well. Besides it was a necessity, for, while the Forest Glen church and its minister were Presbyterians, the Sunday school had gone far ahead of the times and was a shining example of what might be achieved by Church union. Noah Clegg was a Methodist, and Sandy McLachlan a pillar in the Presbyterian church. Old Silas Pratt, who was secretary-treasurer, and his daughter who was the organist, were close-communion Baptists, and there were several Anglicans who taught classes. All denominations¹⁰⁵ had a voice in the managing of the Sunday school, but an hour later, when the Rev¹⁰⁰. Mr. Murray drove out from Cheemaun, the service took on a decidedly Presbyterian color.
 
When the buggies from The Dale valley rumbled¹⁰⁶ up to the door, Sandy McLachlan was there, stick in hand. He was a queer but intelligent old man, who lived in a little house on the edge of the woods where the Short Cut met the highway. He was quite alone in the world, except for his little grand-daughter Eppie. Elizabeth knew Eppie well, as they were about the same age, and in the same class in Sunday school. As she alighted, she caught sight of the little girl in her coarse homespun dress and heavy boots hiding shyly behind her grandfather. At the sight of Elizabeth her face broke into a radiant smile. This was her one schoolmate who was always kind to poor Eppie.
 
But, as Elizabeth hurried up the steps towards her, she almost stumbled over Trip who came cowering¹⁰⁹ behind. There were only two or three things in the world that Trip was afraid of, and Martin's big yellow dog was one of them. This terrible brute¹¹⁰ was slowly approaching with gleaming teeth, bristling¹¹¹ yellow hair, and terrible inward rumblings. Scarcely knowing what she did, Elizabeth caught up the shivering little terrier and rolled him under her pinafore. She looked about distractedly for Charles Stuart, but both he and John had driven the horses to the sheds. Elizabeth slowly approached the door in an agony of uncertainty¹¹³. It would be dreadfully wicked to take a dog into church, even if one could pass old Sandy, but it was impossible to leave Trip out there to be rent in pieces by those terrible yellow jaws¹¹⁴. She pressed behind Sarah Emily, striving to hide the squirming little bundle beneath her pinafore.
 
"Are ye goin' to take him in?" whispered Eppie in dismay.
 
"I—I don't know what to do," faltered¹¹⁵ Elizabeth. "Brag¹¹⁶ 'll kill him if I leave him here—and your grandpa won't let him in."
 
"Grandaddy 'll not be saying anything," whispered Eppie. "Jist be slippin' in by."
 
As they approached the big knotted stick, Miss Gordon, leading Jamie by the hand, passed in ahead of them. Sandy lowered his stick and made a profound bow. He had been heard many times to declare that Miss Gordon was the finest lady he had seen since he left the Old Country, and he knew a lady when he saw one. Miss Gordon was aware of Sandy's opinion, and as usual bowed to him most graciously, and under cover of her entry Elizabeth, breathless with dread²⁷ of the fell deed she was committing, slipped inside and up to her class seat, still holding the trembling little dog beneath her pinafore.
 
There were already three other little girls in the class, who all gazed in amazement¹¹⁷ at the new pupil. Rosie Carrick was there, Rosie of the pink cheeks and the long curls who was Elizabeth's dearest chum. Rosie giggled at the sight of Trip, and Elizabeth felt ashamed. Rosie was the dearest girl in the world, but she would giggle¹³ at anything, even a tragedy.
 
"Please, teacher," said Katie Price, "Lizzie Gordon's fetched a dog into Sunday school." Katie Price always told things, and Rosie stopped giggling¹¹⁸ and whispered, "Aw, tattle-tale!"
 
The teacher looked down at the little dog crouching¹¹⁹ between Elizabeth's feet and Eppie's. But she did not look the least bit cross. Martha Ellen never did. She giggled harder than Rosie, and exclaimed:
 
"Laws! Lizzie Gordon, where did you get him?" and then straightened her big hat and glanced across the aisle¹²⁰ towards Mr. Coulson's class. Elizabeth looked up at her in overwhelming gratitude¹²¹. She had always adored Martha Ellen Robertson, but never so much as at this minute.
 
"Please, teacher," she faltered, "Martin's Brag was going to eat him up. He's Charles Stuart MacAllister's dog, and I can give him to Charles Stuart when he comes."
 
"Oh, he ain't going' to hurt anybody; are you, little doggie?" whispered Martha Ellen good-naturedly. "He'll be all right so long as your grandpa don't see him; eh, Eppie?"
 
Eppie smiled shyly, and then Noah Clegg's squeaky boots sounded up the aisle and Sunday school had commenced.
 
Elizabeth drew a great sigh of relief, and glanced about her to see if anyone appeared conscious of the guilty secret squeezed between her and Eppie. But apparently¹²³ no one was. All her own family, seated about the room, seemed absorbed in their own affairs.
 
Each of the Gordons had a place in Sunday school, either as pupil or teacher. Mr. Gordon taught the old folk who sat on the front row of seats. Every Sabbath they were there, their hard hands folded, their gray heads and toil-worn shoulders bent¹²⁴, listening while the man with the sad, sweet face told them stories of One whose hands had been rent, and whose shoulders had been bowed by the burden of their sin, and Who, could they but know Him, would, under all the labor¹²⁵ and money-getting of their narrow lives, reveal to them life's true and noble meaning.
 
Miss Gordon taught the Young Ladies' Bible Class, her most critical pupil being Sarah Emily, whose presence there the good lady could not but regard as an intrusion. Annie taught a class of tiny girls near the front. She had taken her place beside them and sat with bent head and scarlet¹²⁶ cheeks. Long ago she had learned that from her position it was very easy to catch the eye of the teacher of a class of big boys across the aisle. But one swift glance at him sitting up straight, haughty¹²⁷, and severe, convinced her she must never expect a kindly¹²⁸ glance from that source again. She had bidden him go, because her aunt had commanded her, but, oh, how could she have suspected that he would obey? She sat in misery¹²⁹, striving desperately¹³⁰ to keep back her tears.
 
Ordinarily Elizabeth would have noticed her sister's distressed¹³¹ face, but Trip once more claimed her attention. Just across the aisle was Old Silas Pratt's class, to which John and Charles Stuart belonged. They had just entered, and, with a squirm and a grunt¹³², the little dog jerked himself free from the nervous grip of his preserver's feet, and darted¹³³ across the aisle to his master. Charles Stuart shoved him under the scat, pinning him there with his legs, and looked inquiringly towards Elizabeth. Such an improper¹³⁴ proceeding¹³⁵ as this entirely¹³⁶ suited Charles Stuart's ideas, but how Elizabeth came to be a partner in it was something he did not understand.
 
But Sunday school was opening, and, as no one seemed to have noticed the dog, Elizabeth, greatly relieved, gave her attention to duty. Noah Clegg had sent Wully Johnstone's Johnny to look up and down the line to see if there was anyone coming, and Johnny having reported no one but Silas Pratt's brindled¹³⁷ cow, the service commenced.
 
"Now, boys and girls," said the superintendent, with a fine old London accent, "we'll sing 'ymn number fifty-four:
 
"There is a 'appy land
Far, far away."
Noah Clegg was a good little man, with a round, cheery face, iron-gray hair, and a short, stubby beard. He wore a shiny black suit, and his new Sabbath boots, which turned up at the toes like Venetian gondolas¹³⁸ and sang like gondoliers. He held a stick in his hand, with which he beat time, and now gave the signal to the organist to commence.
 
Miss Lily Pratt struck up the tune¹³⁹, and the school arose.
 
"Now, boys an' girls, an' grown-ups, too," cried the superintendent, "sing up fine an' 'earty. This is a 'appy land we live in an' we're goin' to a 'appier one; an' this is a 'appy day, an' I 'ope the good Lord 'll give us all 'appy 'earts."
 
The school burst into song. Everyone, from old Granny Teeter in the front row to little Jamie Gordon down in the primary class, sang with all his might. Then there was an equally hearty¹⁴⁰ reading of the Lesson. This was a short extract from the Scriptures¹⁴¹ printed on their little leaflets. Noah Clegg read one verse, while the school responded with the next in rumbling¹¹² unison¹⁴², after which each teacher turned to his class. This was simply done by reversing the seat ahead, the back of which turned over in the most accommodating manner, enabling the instructor¹⁴³ to sit facing his pupils.
 
The Lesson was read again in class, verses were recited, and then the teacher asked questions or expounded¹⁴⁴ the passage. A pleasant buzz and hum arose. Now and then a voice would rise above the general rumble¹⁰⁷, for old Silas Pratt was deaf, and Charles Stuart MacAllister and Wully Johnstone's Johnny, and John Gordon and all the other bad boys in his class, shouted their memory verses into his ear louder than even necessity demanded. Then Wully Johnstone had a powerful and penetrating¹⁴⁵ voice and taught so loud that everyone in the church heard him even better than he heard his own teacher.
 
The little girls in Martha Ellen Robertson's class were always quiet and well-behaved, partly because it was the nature of all except Elizabeth, but mostly because they were very much in love with their teacher and intensely proud of her. They felt they had good reason to be, for was it not known all over the countryside that Martha Ellen was the best-dressed young lady outside Cheemaun. Every Sunday, Elizabeth and Rosie, squeezed up against the wall to avoid the drip from the coal-oil lamp above, sat waiting for her arrival and whispering eager speculations¹⁴⁶ as to what new things she would wear. They were seldom disappointed, and to-day their teacher had never looked finer. She wore a brand new white hat, with a huge bunch of luscious¹⁴⁷ red cherries nodding over the wide brim. To be sure, the white embroidered¹⁴⁸ dress was last summer's freshly starched and ironed, but she had a new, broad blue satin ribbon round her slim waist and tied in a big bow at her side. Then Martha Ellen always wore gold bracelets¹⁴⁹ and rings; and, what was her most attractive ornament¹⁵⁰ to her class, a beautiful gold watch in her belt, attached to a long gold chain about her neck. The girls often saw the watch, much to their joy, for several times during Sunday school Martha Ellen would pull it out and say in surprise, "The time's not up yet," and would continue with the lesson.
 
Martha Ellen was always kind, and one of the few people with whom Elizabeth expanded. Elizabeth was often wild and foolish in school, but in Sunday school that older inner self was always predominant and she was as wise and well behaved as Noah Clegg himself. For inside the church building the child's mind was held in a kind of holy fear. She spent most of her time there dwelling¹⁵¹ upon her sins and longing¹⁵² to be good. She did not know that the starched pinafore that scratched her neck, the tightness of her heavy braid of hair, and the stiffness of her Sunday boots contributed not a little to her inner discomfort. But she gave her undivided attention to Miss Robertson and the lesson.
 
She was never distracted, as Rosie so often was by Katie Price's clothes. Katie had on a new sash to-day, and Rosie sighed and poked¹⁵³ Elizabeth and asked her if she didn't wish to goodness she had one, too. Elizabeth glanced at the sash quite unmoved. The Gordon girls never had sashes, nor finery of any kind, but why should one who knew she would some day wear a flashing suit of silvery armor and a crimson¹⁵⁴ velvet¹⁵⁵ cloak be envious¹⁵⁶ of mere⁶⁹ ribbons? Elizabeth did not confide¹⁵⁷ this comforting assurance to Rosie, but she whispered truthfully, No, that she didn't want one like Katie Price's. She was quite unconscious of the fact that there dwelt in her mind not a little of Aunt Margaret's pride—the feeling that it was infinitely¹⁵⁸ better to be a Gordon in a dun-colored pinafore than a Price in a silk sash and a flower-trimmed hat.
 
She soon forgot all about Katie in her absorption in the lesson. Anything savoring¹⁵⁹ of religion took strong hold of Elizabeth, and even Martha Ellen's presentation of a passage of Scripture appealed to her. When the passage was re-read, Miss Robertson read a list of questions off the printed page before her. "Who was Zaccheus?" was the first question. Katie Price was looking at her sash and didn't know. Susie Martin hung her head and blushed, Eppie Turner was always too shy to speak, and Rosie Carrick ventured the remark that "he was a man." Miss Robertson passed on perfectly¹⁶⁰ good-natured. "Lizzie Gordon, who was Zaccheus?" Lizzie Gordon knew all about him, and spun¹⁰⁸ off information, even to his being little and having to climb a tree. "I can tell lots more," she said invitingly¹⁶¹, as Miss Robertson held up her hand to stem the flood. But the teacher smilingly shook her head. Lizzie was getting too far ahead. "Where did he live?" was the next question read off in the direction of Katie Price, and so on they went until all the questions were read and answered, Elizabeth supplying whatever information the rest of the class failed to give. Next came the "Application," which Elizabeth enjoyed most, because it left room for discussion. The "Application" applied¹⁶² to each verse and was also read by the teacher. "Zaccheus was a small man. We may be small and insignificant¹⁶³ in the eyes of the world, but none the less does responsibility devolve upon each one of us." "Zaccheus climbed a tree. We learn from this that we should all strive to climb to the loftiest that life can attain¹⁶⁴." Elizabeth put in an occasional remark, and Martha Ellen responded. This was one of the former's grown-up moments and she reveled in it. There was none of the family there to carry home the tale that Lizzie was putting on pious airs, and so expose her to Jean's ridicule¹⁶⁵; and Martha Ellen's marked appreciation¹⁶⁶ drew her out to make the wisest and profoundest remarks.
 
Occasionally Miss Robertson would take out her gold watch and look at it in surprise, and then continue. Occasionally, also, she glanced across the aisle to the big boys' class, and once she was rewarded by a smile and a gracious bow from its teacher. Then Martha Ellen's cheeks grew pink and the cherries on her hat, Elizabeth noticed, shook just as the cherries in the orchard did when the wind swept through the boughs¹⁶⁷. She looked very much pleased, too, and glanced back to where Annie Gordon in her plain, blue cotton dress sat with drooping¹⁶⁸ head, striving to give her attention to the lesson.
 
Miss Robertson had finally read all the "Application," and again she looked at her gold watch, while the class sat admiring it. There were still some minutes left, and, with a sigh, the teacher twisted her gold bracelets and then turned the page. "We have just time for the moral piece," she said. "The moral piece" was a little sermon at the end of the Lesson, containing an admonition to all youthful minds, and Martha Ellen sometimes used it to fill in the last few minutes. Elizabeth always listened to it solemnly, for it was full of long, high-sounding words that gave her an exalted¹⁶⁹ feeling. But just now her attention was diverted by signs of dire⁶⁶ trouble brewing¹⁷⁰ across the aisle. John and Charles Stuart, all unmindful of old Silas Pratt, who was solemnly reading the moral piece, the paper held close to his eyes, were doubling up in convulsions of silent laughter; while from underneath¹⁷¹ them came ominous¹⁷² squeaks¹⁷³ and rumbles¹⁷⁴ and a pair of wicked eyes gleamed from the dusky shadow of the seat. Elizabeth's heart stood still. Those dreadful boys were teasing Trip, and he would burst forth soon into loud barking, and what would become of the culprit who had brought him into the church?
 
The moral piece was drawing to a close; old Wully Johnstone had finished his, and a hush¹⁷⁵ had fallen over the school. Noah Clegg had left his class, and gone squeak¹²², squeak on tiptoe to the platform, and was coming squeak, squeak back again with the collection box. The little girls had begun to untie¹⁷⁶ their cents from the corners of their handkerchiefs.
 
Now, the window just above Elizabeth's head was open, and a little sparrow, emboldened¹⁷⁷ by the quiet, hopped¹⁷⁸ upon the sill, and fell to pecking at some crumbs¹⁷⁹ left there from the last tea-meeting. He even ventured to the edge of the sill and with his knowing little head on one side contemplated¹⁸⁰, with one bright eye, the cherries on Martha Ellen's hat, as though he longed to get a peck at them.
 
But just across the church the wicked pair of gleaming eyes were watching the little sparrow from the dark corner. From beneath them subterranean¹⁸¹ grumblings and mutterings warned Charles Stuart that Trip was growing dangerously excited. John Gordon indicated the cause, by a nod at the sparrow, and the two boys ducked their heads in an agony of mirth. This was too much for Charles Stuart. Not stopping to consider the consequences, he leaned down and whispered, "Crows, Trip, crows!" and clutched the little dog tighter between his legs. Now Trip had been trained all spring to chase the crows from the corn, and this was his signal to charge. Not all the boys in Forest Glen Sunday school could have held him at that moment. The word "crows" changed him into a raging, squirming, yelping¹⁸³, snarling¹⁸⁴, exploding little powder-magazine. With a yell of wrath¹⁸⁵ he burst free and leaped upon the opposite seat, knocking the moral piece from Silas Pratt's hand and the spectacles from his nose. With one explosive yelp¹⁸² he hurtled across the aisles¹⁸⁶, landed upon Martha Ellen Robertson's seat, slid half its slippery length, righted himself, and standing upon his hind³⁰ legs, with his front paws upon the back of the seat, he burst into a storm of wild barking. Of course the sparrow was by this time away down near Lake Simcoe, but Trip still continued his uproar¹⁸⁷. He did not bark, he fairly squalled out all his long pent-up rage, leaping and dancing on his wicked little hind legs, and making noise enough to scare every bird out of Forest Glen woods.
 
The consternation¹⁸⁸ was not confined to the birds. Everybody stood up and exclaimed in horror. Martha Ellen was so alarmed that she screamed right out loud, and ran across the aisle to Mr. Coulson for protection. Noah Clegg dropped the collection all over the floor, and Silas Pratt put on his spectacles again and ejaculated, "Well, well, well, well!" Even the daring Charles Stuart was rather dismayed at the havoc¹⁸⁹ he had wrought¹⁹⁰, and as for poor Elizabeth, words could not describe how rent and torn she was between shame and terror. Sandy McLachlan was the only one who seemed equal to the emergency. He arose, exclaiming explosively, "For peety's sake!" and in two minutes the dog was flying through the doorway¹⁹¹ with yelps¹⁹² of terror, followed by several profane¹⁹³ anathemas¹⁹⁴ upon his wicked little head for "pollutin' the hoose o' God."
 
Noah Clegg gathered up the pennies and took his place upon the platform as if nothing had happened. Any rare case of insubordination in the Sunday school was never dealt with there. It was left to home discipline, which, being of the good old Canadian sort, was always salutary. So, knowing by the MacAllister's lowering countenance that dire consequences awaited his son upon his return home, Noah gave out the closing hymn, with undisturbed cheerfulness:
 
"Come along now, boys and girls, an' we'll sing our closin' 'ymn. Never mind the poor little puppy, there ain't no bad in him at all. Come along an' we'll sing No. 148—'Oh, 'Appy Day,' and then you'll go out an' fill your lungs full o' hair before church starts."