The little church lay bowered in its grove of
sycamores, and, around it, a golden-green concourse of quivering shadows
cooled those who had walked or driven from Drift--an outlying portion of
the parish--approached through lanes innocent of all shade. Mr. Chirgwin
put up the horse and presently joined his nieces in church. Then Joan saw
him under interesting and novel conditions. He wore glasses with gold rims;
he covered his bald head with a little velvet cap; at the appointed time he
took a wooden plate and carried it round for money. Mary found the old
man's places for him and sang in a way that fairly astounded Joan. The
enormous satisfaction brought to herself by these vocal efforts was
apparent. Her soul appeared mightily lifted up. She amused chance visitors
to the church, but the regular congregation liked to hear Mary; and Joan,
seeing the comfort her cousin sucked from singing, wished she had heart to
join. That, however, she wholly lacked. Moreover, the words were strange to
her.
The quiet service, brightened by music, dragged its slow length murmuringly
along. The sermon, delivered by a visitor, was not of a sort to hold Joan,
and, indeed, could hardly be expected to attract many in such a
congregation. The preacher had lately been reading old Cornish history,
and, overcome by the startling fact that the far west of England--Cornwall
and Devon--were Christian long before Augustine saw Kent, dwelt upon the
matter after a very instructive fashion in ears unlikely to benefit from
such knowledge.
Pages:
290
291
292
293
294
295
296
297
298
299
300
301
302
303
304
305
306
307
308
309
310
311
312
313
314