According to the Pattern (Romance Classic). Grace Livingston Hill

bred apathy that betokened perfect trust in the ability of the speaker to perform his part of the services without disturbing them.

      Mrs. Winthrop tried now to center her mind on what was being said. Perhaps she had mistaken his words and her own silly brain had falsified the text to suit what was in her mind.

      When a third time came the words: “See . . . that thou make all things according to the pattern shewed to thee in the mount!” it began to seem an awful sentence, though without any very distinct meaning.

      The sermon which followed was eloquent and learned. There was an elaborate description of the tabernacle, and the main point of the sermon, if point there might be said to be, was an appeal for certain styles of church architecture. But of all this Mrs. Claude Winthrop heard not a word, except it might have been the name of Moses.

      In her younger days she had been taught the Bible. She knew in a general way that “the mount” was something holy. She did not wait to puzzle her brain about Moses in the mount nor wonder what it was he had been given a pattern of. She might have recalled it if she had tried. But instead she simply took the text as spoken to her. There had been something unearthly, almost uncanny, to her weary brain in the way the words had been said out of the stillness that came after the singing had ceased. In her uneasy state of mind it was brought home to her how far from any patterns given in any mounts had been the things that she had made of late.

      Following close upon the benediction came the bewilderment of a familiar greeting. Mrs. Winthrop had been so beset by her thoughts during the sermon that she had thus far lost sight of her object in coming to church that morning. True, she grasped in her hand, as if it were something precious, the church calendar containing the announcements of all meetings of the church to be held that week, but she had forgotten to look out among the congregation those who might help in her schemes. Therefore she stood in amazement at the torrent of words spoken by the young girl who had sat in the seat before her. She knew that the girl’s name was Celia Lyman and that her mother belonged to an exclusive set of people. She had barely a speaking acquaintance with Mrs. Lyman, and had never felt that she would be likely to recognize her outside of the church.

      “I beg your pardon,” the sweet voice said, while a detaining gloved hand was laid gently on Miriam’s arm, “but mamma told me to be sure and give you a message. She was unable to get out this morning. She has one of her miserable headaches, and is all worn out. But she wanted me to tell you that she was anxious to have you come to our house Thursday to the musicale. She supposed she had sent you an invitation with the rest, but this morning she found it had slipped down behind her writing desk against the wall. She remembers laying it out for Miss Faulkes to look up your street and number, for mamma had quite forgotten it—she never remembers such things—but there it lay with only your name on it. And now Miss Faulkes says she couldn’t find your address and forgot to speak to mamma about it. She is becoming careless about things. So as it was so late and mamma could not find the paper with your address she thought maybe you would just take the invitation informally this time, for there is to be some really fine music which mamma is sure you will enjoy. You won’t mind this once, will you?” and a pair of violet eyes searched her face as if the matter were of great moment.

      Mrs. Winthrop endeavored to veil her amazement and murmured her thanks, saying that the manner of the invitation did not matter, and was rewarded by a most ravishing smile.

      “Then you’ll be sure to come. Four to six is the hour. Oh, and I had almost forgotten, mamma told me to be sure to get your street and number so it would be on hand for another time of need,” and a dainty silver pencil and silver mounted memoranda was lifted from a collection of small nothings that hung on tiny chains at her belt, while the lovely eyes were lifted to her face inquiringly.

      Mrs. Winthrop was conscious of a slight lifting of Miss Celia’s eyebrows as she repeated the street and number after her and wrote, and was there just a shadow of surprise in her voice? It was not a fashionable locality, and Miriam Winthrop suddenly saw a new difficulty in her way.

      Then she turned to do gown the aisle and bowed here and there mechanically, scarcely knowing whom she met. How strange, how very strange, that Mrs. Lyman, after almost two years of utterly ignoring her since they had first met, should suddenly invite her to her home and her wonderful musicales, for their fame had reached even her ears, stranger almost though she was. It must be that a Higher Power was enlisted to help her to-day, for here was opening to her the very door the key of which she had despaired of finding. A superstitious feeling that the text was meant for her in some way as a warning, kept clinging to her, and made her go to her own room as soon as she had reached home, and after bolting her door kneel down and whisper a few words that were meant for a sort of prayer, an attempt to placate some unseen Ruler in whom she believed with a sort of nursery-fairy-tale credulity.

      In the meantime Miss Celia Lyman was detailing her encounter to her mother.

      “Yes, I saw Mrs. Preston, mamma, only I completely forgot her name when church was out, but I just turned around and talked hard, and I don’t think she noticed in the least that I didn’t speak it. I knew her at once, because she was so sweetly gowned. There were three other ladies in the seat behind us, but they were all strangers. There seemed to be lots of strangers there today; we had a man in our pew. I told her all you said, and put in a nice little compliment about her being so fond of music, though I couldn’t quite remember whether you said that or not, but it pleased her awfully for I saw her cheeks get as pink as roses. She said it didn’t matter in the least about the invitation and she would be so glad to come, so now you needn’t worry another bit about that lazy Miss Faulkes. I would dismiss her if I were you.”

      “Did you get Mrs. Preston’s address, Celia?” asked the mother from her luxurious couch; “you know I must call upon her if possible before the musicale. She is a stranger and a new-comer, and I wish to show her some attention on account of her father knowing your grandfather so well.”

      “Yes, mamma, I did remember it, though it was just a hairbreadth escape. I had to call her back to get it. You know I never can remember more than one thing at once; but really I deserve a good deal of credit, for I was dying to get over to the other side of the church to speak to Margaret Langdon before she got away. She is expecting her cousin home from Europe soon, you know, and I wanted to make sure he would be in time for Christobel’s house party, because if he isn’t I’m not going to accept, for there isn’t another man going that I care a cent about except Ralph Jackson, and he’s so over-poweringly engaged, there is no comfort for any other girl now in him. Let me see, where did I write that address.”

      The sweet voice tinkled on like the babbling of some useless little brook.

      “Oh, here it is, mamma. Hazel Avenue—1515 Hazel Avenue. Say, mamma, isn’t it rather queer for a Preston to live on Hazel Avenue? Are they poor? Her gown did not look like it. I should say it was imported. No one but a master-hand could have put those little touches to her costume.”

      Mrs. Lyman sat up regardless of the pillows that slipped to the floor.

      “Hazel Avenue! Are you sure, Celia? You are so careless. Perhaps you have some other address mixed with it.”

      “No, mamma, I’m sure this time for I said it over after her, and I remember thinking it was a very dull part of town for that dress she wore to have come from.”

      “Celia, are you sure you got the right woman?”

      “Sure, perfectly sure, mamma. I studied her sidewise during the closing hymn, for she didn’t sit directly behind me. You said she had brown eyes and hair, and anyway, I remembered seeing her in the seat before. I’m sure it was the right woman. Now quiet down, mamma; if it had not been the right one she would surely have told me, wouldn’t she? She was the perfect pink of refinement in manner and dress.”

      “Well, I suppose she would,” said the mother, as her daughter rearranged the pillows for her, “but you are very careless for a girl of your age, and I shall have to call upon her to make sure it is all right. There is really no telling what you may have said to her, after all. And it does seem queer to invite someone from Hazel Avenue.

      The house