do not know what on earth they will do," cried Emily, tossing her hat and gloves on the sofa. "Everard is in a terrible stew about the anthem; Mary Cleaver is laid up with a bad cold and sore throat, so that there is no chance of her being able to sing to-morrow, and there is not another in the choir that could make anything of the solo—at least not anything worth listening to. Is it not provoking?—just at the last minute. Grace, now won't you take Miss Cleaver's place just for once? Do, please."
"Thanks! But the idea is too absurd. Fancy my singing at a 'missionary meeting.'"
"Perhaps Isabel would," interposed Rose.
"The idea is too absurd," returned Emily, affectedly.
"Don't be impertinent, Emily," said Grace, haughtily. "It is useless to talk of Isabel,
she added, addressing Rose, "she refused before, and Everard would not be so absurd as to ask her again; he was quite pressing enough—far too much so for my taste."
"I'm not so sure he won't; he will not easily give up his 'pet anthem,'" replied Emily.
"Well, Isabel will not do it, you will see," answered Grace.
"I'm not so sure of that, either; he usually gets his own way somehow or other."
"Then how was it he did not succeed at first?" said Grace, tartly.