One thing struck me as peculiar: no ladies came into any place but the galleries, and up there they whispered and laughed in a way that made my blood run cold.
By and by a man came in, walked down the broad aisle, and went up into the pulpit.
Two or three men were sitting in the deacons' seat,—which ran along below the pulpit, and they began to whisper together—a thing I didn't like in the deacons of a church.
The minister put his hands together beautifully. The congregation stood up, as good Presbyterians ought to do, and I stood up too, with my arms folded, and bending my head a little, while a solemn prayerfulness crept over me; but the next minute I dropped both arms and opened both eyes wide.
The minister was coming down the pulpit stairs. The congregation sat down. The deacons each took up a pen—so did the singers, who hadn't sung a note yet.
"What does this mean?" I whispered to Cousin E. E.
"The prayer is over," says she.
"Over!" says I. "Why, the minister hadn't begun to tell the Lord what sinners we all are."
"Oh!" says she, almost laughing out in meeting, "that would be too heavy work for one man. Only think how much of it there is to represent in this place."
"Cousin," says I, "your levity in this sacred place shocks me."