Arriving at the chapel, the superintendent of the school came forward to meet him, with the request that, in the place of the usual exercises, he would address them. But Mr. Angus requested to be allowed to watch the workings of the school consenting, however, to talk to them at the end.
"Is this your usual number?" he inquired, glancing over the room.
"Yes sir, about the average."
"Are they punctual in their attendance,—teachers and scholars?"
"No, sir; that is one great drawback to success."
"Do these children not go to church? I saw few children there."
"No, sir; they seldom go."
Declining a seat on the platform, Mr. Angus drew an arm-chair near the Bible class and waited for the superintendent to call the school to order. The gong sounded, but the noise did not decrease. The second time, with the aid of the teachers, the loud whispering abated, when, in a low voice, impossible to be heard at the farther end of the room, the superintendent offered prayer. A hymn was given out, and all looked around for the lady who usually played the melodeon. She was absent, and at last, just as the singing was to be omitted, Annie Asbury came forward blushing, and said, "I will try to play."
Mr. Angus was afflicted with a keen ear for discords. I can only say that during the singing he was agonized. Before the closing exercises he had made up his mind that here at least there was work for the pastor. The apathy was alarming. With few exceptions, the teachers hurried through the lesson, accepting without reproof the too evidently manufactured excuses in place of a well-learned lesson; then shutting the book, he or she became totally oblivious of all that was passing, some even leaving the class to talk with another teacher.
That was a face thoroughly in earnest which confronted the school when the superintendent announced that "Rev. Mr. Angus, our pastor, will address you."