"S'pose you've seen all the big cathedrals, eh?"
"Good many."
There was still a subdued rustling in the church, and outside, still the clanging bell contended with the storm.
"And this—makes you smile?"
"N—no," returned the older man with a kind of reluctance. "I've seen many a worse church; America's full of 'em."
"Hey?"
"So far as—dignity goes—" The Colonel was wrestling with some vague impression difficult for him to formulate. "You see, you can't build anything with wood that's better than a log-cabin. For looks—just looks—it beats all your fancy gimcracks, even brick; beats everything else hollow, except stone. Then they've got candles. We went on last night about the luxury of oil-lamps. They don't bring 'em in here!"
"We do in our prairie and Southern country churches."
"I know. But look at those altar lights." The Boy was too busy looking at Sister Winifred. "I tell you, sir, a man never made a finer thing than a tall wax candle."
"Sh! Mustn't talk in church."