But the train presently switched off and ran into another station, into another part of the city, wherein John was as total a stranger as though he had just dropped from the clouds.
"Where on earth am I?" he said bewildered, swinging himself down from the top of the car and looking around. "Just my luck. I'm nowhere. East, west, north, south,—which way shall I go? I'll go north. Which is north? Or no, I won't; it's coming winter. I guess I'll go south, and walk as long as it looks interesting, and see where I'll bring up. What difference does it make which way I go?"
All the difference in the world, John Morgan. It is a link in the chain which is narrowing around you. It is one of the apparently trivial movements which will have its silent, unnoticed, unthought-of part in helping you to decide which way you will go during all your future, and at what station you will finally land.
[CHAPTER XXII.]
CORDS UNSEEN.
THE morning service was just over in the great church on Lexington Avenue. A large company of men and women lingered in the broad aisles, shaking hands with each other, saying a word here and there in subdued happy tones. A looker-on, who was familiar with religious meetings, and who yet had not been present at this one, would have known by the atmosphere lingering in the church that the worshippers had been having a happy time. They were loath to leave; they gathered in little knots, at convenient standing-places, and discussed the events of the hour and the prospects of the evening. Large numbers of the ladies had packages of white cards in their hands—not unlike calling-cards in size and texture, and quite as carefully written on as ever calling-cards were. The handwriting was peculiar—delicate, gracefully rounded letters, skilful flourishes. Somebody had considered the work important, and had bestowed time and skill.
"Estelle dear, won't you go forward and get some of the cards? I see very few here who will go up Fairmount Street, and you may be able to reach some who will be otherwise neglected."
So spoke one of the lingerers, a fair-faced woman, with silver-tinted hair, to a very graceful young woman, who was evidently her daughter, and who evidently lingered, not so much from personal interest in the scene as because her mother did. She turned full, wondering, and yet deprecating eyes on her mother at the question.
"O mamma! I cannot offer those cards to people. I am not one of the workers, you know; it isn't expected of me. You have some, and that will be sufficient for our family."
"I am not going up Fairmount Street," the mother answered quietly. "I have only enough cards to meet my own opportunities, daughter. If Louise were here, dear, can't you think how she would scatter those little white messengers?"