it would seem, being to amend if the narrative did his faction less than justice.
The story finished, and the Elder nodding his assent to it, the Angel of the Chair dismissed her informants and turned a welcoming glance on John, who advanced with extended hand, but judging that his formula of introduction was now unnecessary.
"I am Mrs. Burbeck," the lady said pleasantly in a rich contralto voice.
Hampstead all but gasped. This delicate, spirituelle creature that hard, red-faced partisan's wife! It seemed impossible.
But Mrs. Burbeck was composedly taking from her lap a twist of tissue paper from which she unrolled a simple boutonniere, consisting of one very large, very corrugated and very fragrant rose geranium leaf, upon which a perfect white carnation had been laid.
"Do you know, Mr. Hampstead," she went on placidly, "what I am going to do?" and then, as John looked his disclaimer, continued: "I have always been allowed the privilege of bringing a flower for the minister's buttonhole. Brother Ingram would never take his flower from any one else. When the rain kept me away, he would not wear a flower at all. Brother Aleshire also took his flower from me."
"But," protested John, in sudden alarm, "I am not a minister at all, you know. I just happened in, and I assure you that all I am thinking of now is a way to happen out."
The Angel, it appeared, was a woman with deeps of calm strength in her.
"You have been a real minister in what you have done this morning," she said contentedly, entirely undisturbed by John's embarrassed frankness.
"But how am I going to get out from under?" gasped
