We were there but a few moments when a number of young men and women, dressed in black robes, with white ties under their chins, came in through some back door behind the gallery where they afterwards stood, and began to sing.
"Lead me to the Li-i-i-i-i-i-i-i-i-ight," sang one young woman, all in a tremble.
"Lead me to the Li-i-i-i-i-i-i-i-i-ight," sang a man in a heavy voice.
Then the woman screeched in as high notes as her voice could reach, I am sure, and the man ran away down to a growl.
After the whole company had repeated "Lead me to the Light," they began to sing against each other, all in a jumble; they seemed to finish the song in some foreign language. I did not know a word of it. I suppose as it was for the worship of God it did not matter whether any one else understood it or not.
After the singing was done, a man—the minister they call him—Uncle Theodore has since told me—stood up before the people and read a verse from the Bible—one of the verses I have not got to yet in my reading with grandmother. Then he began to talk about the hardships of poor missionaries out in what he called "the unchristianised West of our own country," and the awful need of the natives. It was "missionary Sunday;" a bulletin lying in the seat acquainted us with the fact, and the music and the sermon were to be of a missionary character.
The minister told a story about a young man who had gone out as a missionary to the Indians, who was living in a shack, twelve by fourteen, cooking his own meals, and eating and sleeping in the one room. He had not salary enough to pay his board.
When the minister had talked half an hour, and had us all wrought up about the woes of the missionary, and the needs of the heathen, he closed his sermon. And we leaned back in our seats and were lulled into forgetfulness of the grievous story, by low-toned, dreamy, soothing music, from the echo organ. Aunt Gwendolin has told me since that the organ cost seventy thousand dollars.
Christians are most extraordinary people; they rouse one all up to the pitch of being willing to do most anything by a heart-rending address, and then scatter all the impression by their music. When the organist had finished, I wasn't the least worried about the ills of the missionary or the Indians. Indeed all the people looked relieved, as if a burden had been lifted from them.
When we were again in the automobile Aunt Gwendolin said: "Didn't the church look well this morning? It has been undergoing some repairs, and three thousand dollars' worth of cathedral oak has been added to the wainscoting."