It had been 'roll-call Sunday' to-day. Once a month, every member of the Guild must respond, to his or her name when it was called, by a prayer, or a verse of scripture, or remarks. It was always a painful Sunday for Sheilah. Not because of her own response—she liked speaking in public—but because of the mumble that issued from the back seat, in answer to the name of Felix Nawn. It was always the same mumble. Felix never varied his response. Those who had heard it many times knew that it was meant to be the first sentence of the Twenty-third Psalm.—To-night Nevin Baldwin had said to Sheilah, after the service (a half an hour after. She had had to stay for a committee meeting), 'Too bad to keep "The Lord-is-my-Shepherd" waiting all this time, Sheilah.'
Sheilah had flushed. She wasn't aware that any one knew about the dark walks home.
Nevin Baldwin was a tall, splendid sort of individual, with a gay, confident manner. Sheilah liked Nevin. Sheilah's mother liked Nevin too. And also Nevin's family. There was always a great deal of thought and preparation, Sheilah noticed, put into the dinner-party which her mother gave when the Baldwins were invited.
'If I didn't know you had a standing date with Pastey, alias The-Lord-is-my-Shepherd, every Sun-
