Marjorv—that was her name; not "Mar," nor "Margie," nor "Jo," nor  "Jory," as some girls nowadays would say. 

She was a little Puritan maid who lived long ago, and the fathers and mothers of those times did not approve of nicknames, so the sweet musical name always came out in full. 

Marjory's father and mother had, with others, come in the brave ship Mayflower, from Old England, and made themselves another home, which they named New England. The little town that began to grow up they called Salem, because Salem means "peace," and here it was that little maid Marjory lived in this pretty, quiet, peaceful, place. 

One lovely Sabbath morning, Marjory sat in her little chair under the shade of a great elm-tree, not far from the cottage door. It was after breakfast, and she had brought her Bible out with her to learn her lesson. It was a pretty spot where she sat; the air was sweet from the white clover blossoms all about her, bees were humming, and birds singing, and a soft rustle went through the tree-tops, and the bright sunshine was every where, except in some cool spots under the shade of the big trees. 

Marjory leaned her head back and looked up through the green leaves into the blue sky, and thought how pretty every thing was. 

"Oh, I wish I could go to church," she said, " it is such a pleasant morning." 

She usually did go to church every Sabbath with her father and mother, but today mother was sick, 

and father had said:— 

"I'm sorry little daughter can't go to church today. I must stay home with mother, and you know you can't go all alone." 

"Oh, let me go alone! I'm big enough," Marjory coaxed, but father said, "No; the walk was long, and she was only a bit of a girl as yet." 

While she sat thinking and wishing, she heard a sound that made her want to go to church more than ever,—not a sweet-toned bell, for in those days a man went about the streets blowing a horn to call the people together, and now the sound echoed from hill to hill, and Marjory jumped up, 

and said aloud, "I do wish I could go." 

She glanced into the little sitting room. Mother was lying on the lounge by the window, and father 

was reading to her. Neither of them was noticing her. A sudden thought came to Marjory. 

Why should she not go to church by herself? 

She tiptoed softly through the kitchen and up the stairs to the little room where she slept. There 

was her pretty blue cambric dress, and white pinafore, and new slippers with satin bows, that her 

grandmother sent her from England. She must go to church to wear those slippers, for Lora Standish had no slippers, and what would she say when she saw those beauties? 

"Mother won't care if I do," she said to herself, as she slipped off her every-day dress and slipped 

into her good one. She had hard work to get it buttoned. She never had fastened her clothes all alone before; but, after a great deal of twisting and turning, it was done, and the stockings, and slippers, and pinafore were on, and now the pretty new hat was set on the yellow hair, and Marjory was ready. She was going to church. 

Can anybody tell why she went down the stairs as softly as if she had been a mouse, and then taking a peep into the sitting-room to make sure that father and mother did not see her, darted through the kitchen and went like a big butterfly across the fields, never stopping once to pick a daisy or buttercup. 

And why did she say over and over to herself, "She won't care, she won't care; it's right for folks to go to church, it is." But she could not quiet the little voice that kept whispering in her ear, "Naughty girl! Naughty girl!" 

She was glad when the long, hot walk was over and she saw the church just before her. 

It was not like any church that you ever saw; there were no stained-glass windows or carpeted floors, and the oaken seats had such high backs that the people in one seat could only see the tops of the heads of the people who sat before them. 

They had no choir; when it came time to sing, a man got up and repeated the first line of the hymn and started the tune, and all the people joined in and sang it; then he repeated the next line, and they sang that, and so on to the end. 

The men carried their guns to church—it will be too long a story to tell why; then there was a tithing man. He carried a long pole and kept the people in order; if boys and girls laughed or whispered, he gave them a smart rap with the end of his stick. If anybody fell asleep, he reached out his long pole and gave them a poke. 

When Marjory arrived at the church door, she was almost afraid to go in; the people were all in their places, and the minister was preaching. She peeped in two or three times first, then she stepped softly in, and while she walked up the aisle, all the people looked straight at her, and wondered why she was all alone, and what made her come to church when it was half out. She was so tired out and so warm, no sooner had she seated herself in the big pew and leaned her head back to rest, than the minister's voice began to sound very far oft; and Marjory was sound asleep. 

She did not sleep long, for something touched her shoulder. She started up and rubbed her eyes, wondering where she was, and there stood that awful tithing man scowling down at her. Poor Marjory! She buried her face in the white pinafore and began to cry. What a dreadful thing had happened to her! She cried and cried, and the more she cried, the harder it was to stop, till finally she sobbed aloud. Then that dreadful man came and took her by the arm and led her out; and, then, whom did she see coming up the path, but her own dear father. He looked very grave and troubled; but he opened his arms, and his little girl ran into them, and put the rest of her tears on his shoulder On the long walk home she told her father all about it. He did not talk much then, but after dinner when Marjory was rested, he gave her a little verse to learn. 

 “Behold, to obey is better than sacrifice." Then he explained to her how the Heavenly Father was 

better pleased to have little children obey their parents than even go to church to worship him, if 

they could not do both. 

"Maybe," said Marjory, as she put her slippers back into the drawer that night, "maybe I shouldn't 'a gone at all if it hadn't been for these new slippers." Then she put her wise little head on one side, and thought a minute, and said to herself, "They shan't go to meeting next Sabbath. 

They shall stay right in that corner to punish them—and me." 

They did stay there, and Marjory wore her old boots to church of her own accord; but she never forgot that other Sabbath and the tithing man, though she lived to tell the story to her grandchildren.

—The Pansy.