“I don’t believe that Hester would care to keep her room Sunday mornings then!” whispered Perry, l’enfant terrible of the Wayt family. “She says family prayers are all she can stand.”
March, the recipient of the saucy “aside,” cast a warning look at the telltale. Inwardly he was amused by the unlucky revelation. Spoiled child as Hester was, she had marvelously keen perceptions and shrewd judgment. She saw through the jugglery that deceived the mass of Mr. Wayt’s followers, and rated correctly the worth of his capital.
He juggled rarely to-day. Even his voice partook of the spread-eagle element which interfused Divine services as conducted by the popular preacher. The church was full to the doors, many of the audience being strangers and sightseers. The number of “transients” increased weekly.
“He is like fly-paper,” Hester had said, this very Sunday, as the skirts of his well-fitting coat, clerically cut and closely buttoned, cleared the front door. “Out of the many that swarm and buzz about him, some are sure to stick—that is, take pews! That is the test of spiritual husbandry, Hetty! I believe I’ll be an infidel!”
“Don’t be utterly absurd!” answered her aunt in a spiritless way. “I haven’t the energy to argue, or even scold. ‘Let God be true, and every man a liar.’ God forgive me, but I am ready, sometimes, to say that all men are! But I can’t let Him go, dear!”
Mr. Wayt gave out the opening hymn in tones that would have been clarion, but for an occasional break into falsetto that brought to March’s irreverent mind the wheezing drone of a bagpipe.
We are living, we are dwelling,
In a grand and awful time;
In an age on ages telling,
To be living is sublime.