Jack only was not so well, and
Mrs. Muir remained with him, while Madge and Mr. Muir wended their
way to a little chapel whose spire was the only summons to worship.
A short, genial, middle-aged man met them at the door, with such
hospitable cordiality as to suggest that he was receiving friends at
his own home, and conducted them to seats. A venerable clergyman sat
in the pulpit with a face full of quiet benignity. Every one who came
appeared to receive an almost personal welcome; and Madge and Mr. Muir
looked enviously at the self-appointed usher. It was as evident that
he was not a professional sexton as that the little congregation could
not afford such a luxury. No care clouded his brow. Evidently his
future did not depend on fluctuations in the maelstrom of commerce,
nor had he one hope so predominant over all others that his life was
one of masked suspense, as was the case with poor Madge. He was rather
like the rugged, sun-lighted mountains near, solid, stable, simple. No
matter what happened, he would remain and appear much the same.
Such was the tenor of Madge's thoughts as she waited for the opening
of service. Fanciful and imaginative to a great degree, she found a
certain mental enjoyment in observing the impressions made upon her by
strangers.
Pages:
81
82
83
84
85
86
87
88
89
90
91
92
93
94
95
96
97
98
99
100
101
102
103
104
105