Speech was brief and low-toned among the elders, as befitted the high moment. The twins were solemnly silent. Amid the funereal gloom, broken only by a hushed word or two from Winona or her mother, the judge completed his fond stroking of the luminous hat, raised it slowly, and with both hands adjusted it to his pale curls. Then he took up his gold-headed ebony cane and stepped from the dusk of the parlour into the light of day, walking uprightly in the pride of fine raiment and conscious dignity. Mrs. Penniman walked at his side, not unconscious herself of the impressive mien of her consort.

Followed Winona and Merle, the latter bearing her hymn book and at some pains keeping step with his companion. Behind them trailed the Wilbur twin, resolving, as was his weekly rule, to keep himself neat through church and Sunday-school—yet knowing in his heart it could not be done. Already he could feel his hair stiffening as the coating of soap dried upon it. Pretty soon the shining surface would crack and disorder ensue. What was the use? As he walked carefully now he inhaled rich scent from the group—Winona's perfume combining but somehow not blending with a pungent, almost vivid, aroma of moth balls from the judge's frock coat.

They met or passed other family groups, stiffly armoured for the weekly penance to a bewildering puzzle of mortality. Ceremonious greetings were exchanged with these. The day was bright and the world all fair, but there could be no levity, no social small talk, while this grim business was on. They reached the white house of worship, impressive under its heaven-pointing steeple, and passed within its portals, stepping softly to the accompaniment of those silken whisperings, with now and again the high squeak of new boots whose wearers, profaning the stillness, would appear self-conscious and annoyed, though as if silently protesting that they were blameless.

Thus began an hour of acute mental distress for the Wilbur twin. He sat tightly between Mrs. Penniman and the judge. There was no free movement possible. He couldn't even juggle one foot backward and forward without correction. The nervous energy thus suppressed rushed to all the surface of his body and made his skin tingle maddeningly. He felt each hair on his head as it broke away from the confining soap. Something was inside his collar, and he couldn't reach for it; there was a poignant itching between his shoulder blades, and this could receive no proper treatment. He boiled with dumb, helpless rage, having to fight this wicked unrest. He never doubted its wickedness, 

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