She calls him Charley, because I do, and that he is not her uncle; nor am I her aunt, which she uses in lieu of Anna. Running out so hastily we run smack into the arms of Show Off, which we immediately see is not him, but probably his father, from the likeness, who grasps us in each hand, holding us out for inspection, saying, “I have caught two little birds that have flown to me.” (Like pigeons, I wish we could fly home again.) “We have no cage here, only freedom; so now I let you go,” suiting the action to the word. Cordial as sedate, I watch him as he walks down the hall and disappears. In trying to find Charley, we find ourselves in the city street.
“Mae, dear, to-day is Sunday; let us find a church,” as we inspect the various houses. We select a large domed enclosure as a temple to God. Stepping to its crystal doors it opens itself to us. Within is a rest scene. Standing or sitting, all look serene, as sacred dreamy notes of melody fill the air, flower perfumed. A soothing sense of peace takes possession of us. Instead of high altar, Hebraic, or idol, or Hindoo custom, a lady and gentlemen are passing among the people, speaking kind admonitions, solemn adoration, or cheering responses. I reflect; this may be their manner of service.
The lady passing us, (who I see is our hostess) chucks us under the chin playfully, saying, “Sweets, have you come to court?”
“Court? I thought it was a church,” I explain.
“What is a church?” she asks.
“Where we pray to God.”
“Oh, we should do that everywhere. The earth is His court. This is only an Arc court,” as she passes on. I still think it a church.
“Auntie, some are dancing; do you see?” I did. She tried the step in childish glee.
Is it a church dance? A worship mode suitable to the Arctic locality. How the Unitarians and Catholics would enjoy it. But I—my M. E. founder, Asbury, was lame, so could not dance, therefore we preach it down. Saucy, as Episcopal, sees no harm.
But now she pulls me out and waltzes me around. (I had learned the art before I joined the M. E.’s.) The glow of circulation raises my spirit to a desire to shout. I do so in M. E. denominational style, solacing my conscience thus far. Soon it pricks again.