A quarter of an hour later she was passing a little mission church from which came trooping a number of children, the little girls pleasantly conscious of Sunday attire and little boys unpleasantly so. As Janet reached a point just opposite the door, she came face to face with Charity Shepherd.
"Oh, it's you, isn't it?" exclaimed Janet taken by surprise.
Charity looked at her disapprovingly. "Yes," she said, "it is I." Then severely, "You are surely not going to cut church, Janet?"
"Why, yes," replied Janet, balancing her Emerson on her hand. "I thought of doing it. The groves were God's first temples, you know, and so I thought of doing my devotions by myself."
"But the example."
"To whom? To you?"
Charity frowned. "I hope I have decision of character enough not to be influenced, and in the performance of duty I could not be turned aside by—"
"A poor worm of the dust like me."
"We are all poor worms of the dust," said Charity solemnly. "I should think you would realize that, Janet, and that you would remember how transitory this life is. Sunday is given us as a privilege, and should not be spent in idle trifling any more than in work. We should use it for our own good."
"That's just what I thought," returned Janet with satisfaction. "We find our good in different ways, Charity. It would be very, very wrong for you to spend the morning as I shall do, because your conscience would smite you all the time, while I haven't a smite. What are you doing up here, by the way? I thought your place of worship was further down."