Mrs. Field listened intently, but all the time it was as if she were shut up in a corner with her own God and her own religion. There are as many side chapels as there are individual sorrows in every church.
After the minister finished his discourse, the old men muttered prayers, with long pauses between. Now and then a young woman played a gospel tune on a melodeon, and a woman in the same seat with Mrs. Field led the singing. She was past middle age, but her voice was still sweet, although once in a while it quavered. She had sung in the church choir ever since she was a child, and was the prima donna of the village. The young girl with roses in her hat who sat in front of Mrs. Field also sang with fervor, although her voice was little more than a sweetly husky breath. She kept her eyes, at once bold and timid, fixed upon the young minister as she sang.
When meeting was done, and Mrs. Field arose, the girl spoke to her. She had a pretty blush on her round cheeks, and she smiled at Mrs. Field in the same way that she would soon smile at the young minister.
“How's Lois to-night, Mrs. Field?” said she.
“She's pretty well, thank you, Ida.”
“I heard she was sick.”
“Oh, no, she ain't sick. The spring weather has made her feel kind of tired out, that's all. It 'most always does.”
“Well, I'm glad she isn't sick,” said the girl, her radiant absent eyes turned upon the minister, who was talking with some one at the desk. “She wasn't out to meeting, and I didn't know but she might be.”
“She thought she wouldn't—” began Mrs. Field, but the girl was gone. The minister had started down the other aisle, and she met him at the door.
Several other people inquired for Lois as Mrs. Field made her way out; some had heard she was ill in bed. She had an errand to do at the store on her way home; when she reached it she went in, and stood waiting at the counter.