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 XLII

Honor sat in Branton Hills’ First Church, on a hot July Sunday. Out-doors, twitting birds, lacy clouds, and gay blossoms, told of happy hours in this long, bright month. Pastor Brown, announcing a hymn, said:—

“This is a charming hymn. Our choir always sings it without company; but today, I want all you good folks to join in. Just pour forth your joy and sing it, good and strongly.”

That hymn had six stanzas; and Gadsby, noting an actually grand bass singing just back of him, thought of turning around, from curiosity; and as that fifth stanza was starting, said to Lady Gadsby:—

“Do you know who that is, singing that grand bass part?”

Lady Gadsby didn’t; but Lady Gadsby was a woman; and, from Noah’s Ark to Branton Hills’ First Church, woman, as a branch of Mankind, was curious. So a slow casual turning brought a dig in His Honor’s ribs:—

“It’s Norman Antor!”

Pastor Brown, standing at that big church