'One Saturday afternoon—it was late in the autumn—mother's grandmother sent over to say that she wanted Maggie, that was mother's name, to come to stay till Monday, and she should drive to church and back with her on the Sunday—the 'Sabbath-day' was what they called it always. Maggie didn't want much to go, but her mother didn't like to refuse; the old people were kind, and it wouldn't do to vex them. So the child was sent off. She was about eight years old.
'"Mayn't I come home with my brothers after the morning church is done?" she said. But her mother shook her head. For some reason they were not going till the afternoon. I think somebody was ill.
'"If I can get in the afternoon, I'll look out for you, and you can come home with me then, dearie," she said. "Tell your grandmother I'd like to have you back to-morrow evening if she doesn't mind."
'The Sunday evenings at Oldbiggins were rather hard upon a child too, for, on the top of the two long services, the old grandfather always read out a very long sermon, difficult for any one to understand, as he read very feebly, and the words were often puzzling.
'Her grandmother ... went quietly out of the pew without a notion but that the child was beside her.'—c. x. p. 153.
'So, with the hope of getting home again before the Sunday evening, little Maggie started. She was a gentle, quiet child, and the old people had no idea but that she was quite happy and liked the long hours in the church as much as they did. She went to church alone with her grandmother and the farm-man who drove the cart, and they took with them a packet of bread-and-butter, or bread-and-jam maybe—what was called "a piece"—to eat outside the church between the two services. There was only an hour between them. Maggie looked out for her own people before she and her grandmother went back into the church again, but they must have been a little late, and the old lady liked to be in her place in good time, so the child did not see them. But she thought to herself she'd be sure to meet them after church, and this thought kept her quiet, though she couldn't possibly get a glimpse of them from her corner of the high pew, even if she had dared to look about. She must have been very tired, and she had cried in bed the night before, and I daresay the cold air outside made it feel warm in the church, anyway this was what happened. The poor little thing fell fast asleep. And her grandmother, who was very blind except with her glasses on—and she always took them off and put them away when the last psalm had been sung—went quietly out of the pew without a notion but that the child was beside her.
'When Maggie woke it was quite dark, the church had been shut up ever so long; there was no evening service. At first she thought she was in bed, and that the clothes had tumbled off her, then feeling about, she found she had her frock and cape and bonnet on, and everything near her was hard and cold, not like bed at all. And by bits it all came back to her mind—her last waking thoughts in church, and how she was hoping to see her mother,—and she began to take in where she was. I've always thought it was really dreadful for her, and she must have been a brave, sensible child— I know she grew up a brave, sensible woman. For, though she couldn't help crying at first with loneliness and cold and the queer sort of fear, she soon settled to do the best she could. There was some moonlight coming in at one window, though not much, but enough to make her see where the pulpit was, and up into the pulpit Maggie climbed, because she had an idea she'd be safer there; and it certainly was warmer, for it was a sort of little box with a door to it, and there were one or two stools and cushions and some red cloth hanging round the top, which Miss Maggie ventured to pull down and wrap round her. And there she composed herself to sleep, and sleep she did, in spite of her loneliness and hunger—oh, I forgot to say she found a wee bit of her "piece" still in her pocket,—till the sunshine woke her up the next morning, for luckily it was a bright mild day. Then down she came, and walked up and down the aisles as fast as she dared, considering it was a church, to get her cramped legs warm again, and just as she was thinking what she was to do to get out, the door opened, to her delight, and in came the man who had care of the church—what we call a verger—followed by the old body who cleaned and swept it.
'They were astonished, as you can fancy; such a thing had never happened before within the memory of man.