Mrs. Jameson began to read the selection from Robert Browning.  Now, as I have said before, we have a literary society in our village, but we have never attempted to read Browning at our meetings.  Some of us read him a little and strive to appreciate him, but we have been quite sure that some other author would interest a larger proportion of the ladies.  I don’t suppose that more than three of us had ever read or even heard of the selection which Mrs. Jameson read.  It was, to my way of thinking, one of the most difficult of them all to be understood by an untrained mind, but we listened politely, and with a semblance, at least, of admiring interest.

I think Harriet Jameson was at first the only seriously disturbed listener, to judge from her expression.  The poor child looked so anxious and distressed that I was sorry for her.  I heard afterward that she had begged her mother not to take the Browning book, saying that she did not believe the ladies would like it; and Mrs. Jameson had replied that she felt it to be her duty to teach them to like it, and divert their minds from the petty gossip which she had always heard was the distinguishing feature of rural sewing meetings.

Mrs. Jameson read and read; when she had finished the first selection she read another.  At half-past four o’clock, Mrs. White, who had been casting distressed glances at me, rose and stole out on tiptoe.

I knew why she did so; Mrs. Bemis’ hired girl next door was baking her biscuits for her that she need not heat her house up, and she had brought them in.  I heard the kitchen door open.

Presently Mrs. White stole in again and tried to listen politely to the reading, but her expression was so strained to maintain interest that one could see the anxiety underneath.  I knew what worried her before she told me, as she did presently.  “I have rolled those biscuits up in a cloth,” she whispered, “but I am dreadfully afraid that they will be spoiled.”

Mrs. Jameson began another selection, and I did pity Mrs. White.  She whispered to me again that her table was not set, and the biscuits would certainly be spoiled.

The selection which Mrs. Jameson was then reading was a short one, and I saw Mrs. White begin to brighten as she evidently drew near the end.  But her joy was of short duration, as Mrs. Jameson began another selection.

However, Mrs. White laid an imploring hand on Flora Clark’s arm when she manifested symptoms of rising and interrupting the reading.  Flora was getting angry—­I knew by the way her forehead was knitted and by the jerky way she sewed.  Poor Harriet Jameson looked more and more distressed.  I was sure she saw Mrs. White holding back Flora, and knew just what it meant.  Harriet was sitting quite idle with her little hands in her lap; we had set her to hemming a ruffle for the missionary’s wife’s dress, but her stitches were so hopelessly uneven that I had quietly taken it from her and told her I was out of work and would do it myself.  The poor child had blushed when she gave it up.  She evidently knew her deficiencies.