“Indeed,” said the stranger. “His preaching ought to be something extraordinary to attract such a crowd as this.”
“And so it is,” breathed Dolly. “And his reading—oh, you never heard any reading like it.”
“Very eloquent, I suppose?”
“I don’t know whether it may be called eloquence,” debated Dolly, remembering that a chance preacher she once heard, who thumped the cushions with his hands and shook the air with his voice, was said to be eloquent. “Mr. Benson is the quietest preacher and reader I ever listened to.”
The stranger seemed to be a kind sort of man. During the stir made by the clergy, preceded by the six black-robed, bowing bedesmen, going up to the communion-table, he found an inch of room on a bench, and secured it for Dolly. She thanked him gratefully.
Mr. Benson’s sermon came to an end, the bishop gave the blessing from his throne, and the crowd poured out. Dolly, by way of a change, made her exit from the great north entrance. The brightness of the day had changed; a sharp shower was falling.
“Oh dear! My new muslin will be wet through!” thought Dolly. “This parasol’s of no use.”
“Will you allow me to offer you my umbrella—or permit me to hold it over you?” spoke the stranger, who must have followed her out. And Dolly hesitated and flushed, and did not know whether she ought to say yes or no.
He held the umbrella over Dolly, letting his own coat get wet. The shower ceased presently; but he walked on by her side to her mother’s door, and then departed with a bow fit for an emperor.
“What a polite man!” thought Dolly. “Quite a gentleman.” And she mentioned the occurrence to her mother; who seemed to-day more poorly than usual.