The village of Innisfield was treated to a singular surprise on the Sunday morning following, when Miss Philura Rice, newly returned from her annual visit to Boston, walked down the aisle to her accustomed place in the singers’ seat. Whispered comment and surmise flew from pew to pew, sandwiched irreverently between hymn, prayer and sermon. Indeed, the last-mentioned portion of the service, being of unusual length and dullness, was utilized by the female members of the congregation in making a minute inventory of the amazing changes which had taken place in the familiar figure of their townswoman.

“Philury’s had money left her, I shouldn’t wonder;” “Her Cousin Van Deuser’s been fixin’ her up;” “She’s a-goin’ to be married!” were some of the opinions, wholly at variance with the text of the discourse, which found their way from mouth to mouth.

Miss Electa Pratt attached herself with decision to her friend, Miss Rice, directly the service was at an end. “I’m just dying to hear all about it!” she exclaimed, with a fond pressure of the arm linked within her own this after the two ladies had extricated themselves from the circle of curious and critical faces at the church door.

Miss Philura surveyed the speaker with meditative eyes; it seemed to her that Miss Pratt was curiously altered since she had seen her last.

“Have you had a fortune left you?” went on her inquisitor, blinking enviously at the nodding plumes which shaded Miss Philura’s blue eyes. “Everybody says you have; and that you are going to get married soon. I’m sure you’ll tell me everything!”

Miss Philura hesitated for a moment. “I haven’t exactly had money left me,” she began; then her eyes brightened. “I have all that I need,” she said, and straightened her small figure confidently.

“And are you going to be married, dear?”

“Yes,” said Miss Philura distinctly.

“Well, I never Philura Rice!” almost screamed her companion. “Do tell me when; and who is it?”

“I can not tell you that now,” said Miss Philura simply. “He is in ” She was about to add “the encircling Good,” but she reflected that Miss Pratt might fail to comprehend her. “I will introduce you to him later,” she concluded with dignity.

To follow the fortunes of Miss Philura during the ensuing weeks were a pleasant though monotonous task; the encircling Good proved itself wholly adequate to the demands made upon it. Though there was little money in the worn purse, there were numerous and pressing invitations to tea, to dinner, and to spend the day, from hosts of friends who had suddenly become warm, affectionate, and cordially appreciative; and not even the new Methodist minister’s wife could boast of such lavish donations, in the shape of new-laid eggs, frosted cakes, delicate biscuit, toothsome crullers and choice fruits as found their way to Miss Philura’s door.

The recipient of these manifold favors walked, as it were, upon air. “For unto every one that hath shall be given,” she read in the privacy of her own shabby little parlor, “and he shall have abundance.”

“Everything that I want is mine!” cried the little lady, bedewing the pages of Holy Writ with happy tears. The thought of the lover and husband who, it is true, yet lingered in the invisible, brought a becoming blush to her cheek. “I shall see him soon,” she reflected tranquilly. “He is mine mine!”

At that very moment Miss Electa Pratt was seated in the awe-inspiring reception-room of Mrs. J. Mortimer Van Deuser’s residence in Beacon Street. The two ladies were engaged in earnest conversation.

“What you tell me with regard to Philura fills me with surprise and alarm,” Mrs. Van Deuser was remarking with something more than her accustomed majesty of tone and mien. “Philura Rice certainly did not become engaged to be married during her stay in Boston. Neither has she been the recipient of funds from myself, nor, to the best of my knowledge, from any other member of the family. Personally, I have always been averse to the encouragement of extravagance and vanity in those destined by a wise Providence to pass their lives in a humble station. I fear exceedingly that Philura’s visits to Boston have failed to benefit her as I wished and intended.”

“But she said that she had money, and that she was going to get married,” persisted Miss Pratt. “You don’t suppose” lowering her strident tones to a whisper “that the poor thing is going crazy?”

Mrs. Van Deuser had concentrated her intellectual and penetrating orbs upon a certain triangular knob that garnished the handle of her visitor’s umbrella; she vouchsafed no reply. When she did speak, after the lapse of some moments, it was to dismiss that worthy person with a practiced ease and adroitness which permitted of nothing further, either in the way of information or conjecture.

“Philura is, after all, a distant relative of my own,” soliloquized Mrs. Van Deuser, “and as such is entitled to consideration.”

Her subsequent cogitations presently took shape to themselves and became a letter, dispatched in the evening mail and bearing the address of the Rev. Silas Pettibone, Innisfield. Mrs. Van Deuser recalled in this missive Miss Philura’s “unfortunate visit” to the Ontological Club, and the patent indications of its equally unfortunate consequences. “I should be inclined to take myself severely to task in the matter,” wrote the excellent and conscientious lady, “if I had not improved the opportunity to explain at length, in the hearing of my misguided relative, the nature and scope of God’s controlling providence, as signally displayed in His dealings with the humbler classes of society. As an under-shepherd of the lowly flock to which Miss Rice belongs, my dear Mr. Pettibone, I lay her spiritual state before you, and beg that you will at once endeavor to set right her erroneous views of the overruling guidance of the Supreme Being. I shall myself intercede for Philura before the Throne of Grace.”

The Rev. Silas Pettibone read this remarkable communication with interest; indeed, after returning it to its envelope and bestowing it in his most inaccessible coat-pocket, the under-shepherd of the lowly flock of Innisfield gave himself the task of resurrecting and reperusing the succinct yet weighty words of Mrs. Van Deuser.

If the Rev. Silas had been blessed with a wife, to whose nimbler wits he might have submitted the case, it is probable that he would not have sat for so long a time in his great chair brooding over the contents of the violet-tinted envelope from Boston. But unfortunately the good minister had been forced to lay his helpmate beneath the rough sods of the village churchyard some three years previous. Since this sad event, it is scarcely necessary to state, he had found it essential to his peace of mind to employ great discretion in his dealings with the female members of his flock. He viewed the matter in hand with vague misgivings. Strangely enough, he had not heard of Miss Philura’s good fortune, and to his masculine and impartial vision there had appeared no especial change in the aspect or conduct of the the little woman.

“Let me think,” he mused, passing his white hand through the thick, dark locks, just touched with gray, which shaded his perplexed forehead. He was a personable man, was the Rev. Silas Pettibone. “Let me think: Miss Philura has been very regular in her attendance at church and prayer-meeting of late. No, I have observed nothing wrong nothing blameworthy in her walk and conversation. But I can not approve of these ah clubs.” He again cast his eye upon the letter. “Ontology, now, is certainly not a fit subject for the consideration of the female mind.”

Having delivered himself of this sapient opinion, the reverend gentleman made ready for a round of parochial visits. Foremost on his list appeared the name of Miss Philura Rice. As he stood upon the door-step, shaded on either side by fragrant lilac plumes, he resolved to be particularly brief, though impressive, in his pastoral ministrations. If this especial member of his flock had wandered from the straight and narrow way into forbidden by-paths, it was his manifest duty to restore her in the spirit of meekness; but he would waste no unnecessary time or words in the process.

The sunshine, pleasantly interrupted by snowy muslin curtains, streamed in through the open windows of Miss Philura’s modest parlor, kindling into scarlet flame the blossoms of the thrifty geranium which stood upon the sill, and flickered gently on the brown head of the little mistress of the house, seated with her sewing in a favorite rocking-chair. Miss Philura was unaffectedly glad to see her pastor. She told him at once that last Sunday’s sermon was inspiring; that she felt sure that after hearing it the unconverted could hardly fail to be convinced of the error of their ways.

The Rev. Silas Pettibone seated himself opposite Miss Philura and regarded her attentively. The second-best new dress was undeniably becoming; the blue eyes under the childish brows beamed upon him cordially. “I am pleased to learn ah that you can approve the discourse of Sabbath morning,” he began in somewhat labored fashion. “I have had occasion to that is er, my attention has been called of late to the fact that certain members of the church have well, to put it briefly, some have fallen grievously away from the faith.”

Miss Philura’s sympathy and concern were at once apparent. “I do not see,” she said simply, “how one can fall away from the faith. It is so beautiful to believe!”

The small, upturned face shone with so sweet and serene a light that the under-shepherd of the Innisfield flock leaned forward and fixed his earnest brown eyes on the clear blue eyes of the lady. In treatises relating to the affections this stage of the proceedings is generally conceded to mark a crisis. It marked a crisis on this occasion; during that moment the Rev. Silas Pettibone forgot at once and for all time the violet-tinted envelope in his coat-tail pocket. It was discovered six month’s later and consigned to oblivion by but let us not anticipate.

“God is so kind, so generous!” pursued Miss Philura softly. “If we once know Him as our Father we can never again be afraid, or lonely, or poor, or lacking for any good thing. How is it possible to fall away? I do not understand. Is it not because they do not know Him?”

It is altogether likely that the pastor of the Innisfield Presbyterian Church found conditions in the spiritual state of Miss Philura which necessitated earnest and prolonged admonition; at all events, the sun was sinking behind the western horizon when the reverend gentleman slowly and thoughtfully made his way toward the parsonage. Curiously enough, this highly respectable domicile had taken on during his absence an aspect of gloom and loneliness unpleasantly apparent. “A scarlet geranium in the window might improve it,” thought the vaguely dissatisfied proprietor, as he put on his dressing-gown and thrust his feet into his newest pair of slippers. (Presented by Miss Electa Pratt “to my pastor, with grateful affection.”)

“I believe I failed to draw Miss Philura’s attention to the obvious relation between faith and works,” cogitated the reverend Silas, as he sat before his lonely hearth, placidly scorching the soles of his new slippers before the cheerful blaze. “It will be altogether advisable, I think, to set her right on that point without delay. I will ah just look in again for a moment to-morrow afternoon.”

“God’s purposes will ripen fast,
Unfolding every hour.
The bud may have a bitter taste,
But sweet will be the flower!”

sang the choir of the Innisfield Presbyterian Church one Sunday morning a month later. And Miss Philura Rice as was afterward remarked sang the words with such enthusiasm and earnestness that her high soprano soared quite above all the other voices in the choir, and this despite the fact that Miss Electa Pratt was putting forth her nasal contralto with more than wonted insistence.

The last-mentioned lady found the sermon on the text, “Little children, love one another, for love is of God” so extremely convincing, and her own subsequent spiritual state in such an agitated condition, that she took occasion to seek a private conversation with her pastor in his study on that same Sunday afternoon.

“I don’t know when I’ve been so wrought up!” declared Miss Pratt, with a preliminary display of immaculate handkerchief. “I cried and cried after I got home from church this morning. Ma she sez to me, sez she, ‘What ails you Lecty?’ And I sez to ma, sez I, ’Ma, it was that blessed sermon. I don’t know when I ever heard anything like it! That dear pastor of ours is just ripening for a better world!’” Miss Electa paused a moment to shed copious tears over this statement. “It does seem to me, dear Mr. Pettibone,” she resumed, with a tender glance and a comprehensive sniff, “that you ain’t looking as well as usual. I said so to Philura Rice as we was coming out of church, and I really hate to tell you how she answered me; only I feel as though it was my duty. ‘Mr. Pettibone is perfectly well!’ she says, and tossed those feathers of hers higher’n ever. Philura’s awful worldly, I do grieve to say if not worse. I’ve been a-thinking for some time that it was my Christian duty (however painful) to tell you what Mis’ Van Deuser, of Boston, said about ”

The Rev. Silas Pettibone frowned with awful dignity. He brought down his closed fist upon his open Bible with forensic force and suddenness. “Miss Philura Rice,” he said emphatically, “is one of the most spiritual the most lovely and consistent Christian characters it has ever been my privilege to know. Her faith and unworldliness are absolutely beyond the comprehension of of many of my flock. I must further tell you that I hope to have the great happiness of leading Miss Rice to the matrimonial altar in the near future.”

Miss Electa Pratt sank back in her chair petrified with astonishment. “Well, I must say!” she gasped. “And she was engaged to you all this time and I never knew it!”

The Rev. Pettibone bent his eyes coldly upon his agitated parishioner. “I am at a loss to comprehend your very strange comment, Miss Pratt,” he said; “the engagement has been of such very short duration that I can not regard it as surprising that you should not have heard of it. It ah took place only yesterday.”

Miss Electa straightened her angular shoulders with a jerk. “Yesterday!” she almost screamed. “Well! I can tell you that Philura Rice told me that she was engaged to be married more than three months ago!”

“You are certainly mistaken, madam,” began the minister in a somewhat perturbed tone, which did not escape the notice of the now flushed and triumphant spinster.

“More than three months ago!” she repeated with incisive emphasis. “Now maybe you’ll listen to me while I tell you what I know about Philura Rice!”

But the lady had reckoned without her host. The Rev. Silas arose to his feet with decision. “I certainly will not listen to anything derogatory to Miss Rice,” he said sternly. “She is my promised wife, you will remember.” With that the prudent minister beat a hasty retreat, to entrench himself without apology or delay in the inner fastnesses of the parsonage.

Miss Electa rolled her greenish orbs about the chamber of learning with a thoughtful smile. “If Philura Rice ain’t crazy,” she said aloud; “an’ I guess she ain’t far from it. She’s told a wicked lie! In either case, it’s my Christian duty to see this thing put a stop to!”

That evening after service Miss Philura, her modest cheeks dyed with painful blushes, confessed to her promised husband that she had indeed announced her intentions of matrimony some three months previous. “I wanted somebody to to love me,” she faltered; “somebody in particular, you know; and and I asked God to give me a a husband. After I had asked, of course I believed that I had. He he was already in the encircling Good, you know, or I should not have wanted him! When Electa asked me point blank, what could I say without without denying God?”

The brave voice faltered more than once during this recital; and finally broke down altogether when the Rev. Silas Pettibone, his brown eyes shining, exclaimed in joyful yet solemn tones, “and God sent me!”

The encircling Good was perfectly manifest at that moment in the shape of two strong arms. Miss Philura rested in them and was glad.