He himself spent his quiet days among them, winter and summer, living at a farmhouse near, and scarcely ever quitting his charge. A lonelier life, especially in winter-time, it was hardly possible to imagine. Yet he looked quite contented, and so did the little congregation as they listened to the short Gaelic sermon (which, of course, was incomprehensible to the strangers), then slowly went out of church and stood hanging about on the dike-side in the sunshine, till the second service should begin.
Very soon a few more groups were seen advancing toward church. There was Maurice, prayer-book in hand, looking so good and gentle and sweet, almost like a cherub in a picture; and Eddie, not at all cherubic, but entirely boyish, walking sedately beside his papa; Eddie clean and tidy, as if he had never torn his clothes or dirtied his face in all his life. Then came the children’s parents, papa and mamma and their guests, and the servants of the house following. While far behind, holding cautiously by her Lizzie’s hand and rather alarmed at her new position, was a certain little person, who, as soon as she saw her own papa and mamma, rushed frantically forward to meet them, with a cry of irrepressible joy.
“Sunny wants to go to church! Sunny would like to go to church with the little boys, and Lizzie says she mustn’t.”
Lizzie was quite right, mamma explained; afraid that so small a child might only interrupt the worship, which she could not possibly understand. But she compromised the matter by promising that Sunny should go to church as soon as ever she was old enough, and to-day she should stay with mamma out in the sunshiny road, and hear the singing from outside.
Staying with mamma being always sufficient felicity, she consented to part with the little boys, and they passed on into church.
By this time the post, which always came in between the services on Sundays, appeared, and the postmaster, who was also schoolmaster and beadle at the church,—as the school, the church, and the post-office were all one building,—began arranging and distributing the contents of the bag.
Everybody sat down by the roadside and read their letters. Those who had no letters opened the newspapers,—those cruel newspapers, full of the war. It was dreadful to read them, in this lovely spot, on this calm September Sunday, with the good pastor and his innocent flock preparing to begin the worship of Him who commanded “Love your enemies; bless them that curse you, do good to them that hate you, and pray for them that despitefully use you and persecute you.”
Oh, what a mockery “church” seemed! You little children can never understand the pain of it; but you will when you are grown up. May God grant that in your time you may never suffer as we have done, but that His mercy may then have brought permanent peace; beating “swords into ploughshares, and spears into pruning-hooks,” for ever and ever throughout the world!
Sunny’s mamma prayed so with all her heart, when, the newspaper laid down, she sat on a stone outside the church, with her child playing beside her; far enough not to disturb the congregation, but near enough to catch a good deal of the service, which was the English Episcopal service; there being few Presbyterians in this district of Scotland, and not a Presbyterian church within several miles.
Presently a harmonium began to sound, and a small choir of voices, singing not badly, began the Magnificat. It was the first time in her life that the little girl had heard choral music,—several people singing all together. She pricked up her ears at once, with the expression of intense delight that all kinds of music bring into her little face.