"How do you know I won't?" His voice was gruff now, gruffer than it had been during the day, and he seized the hammer and pounded so vigorously that she could neither speak nor hear. She turned from him in doubt and anxiety still, and immediately joined her husband, who had come to say that the pounding must cease—the people were beginning to come to prayer-meeting. Nevertheless the pounding did not cease until two more nails were in place. Then did John, without any effort at quiet, stalk down the uncarpeted aisle and seat himself in the Morgan pew, Dorothy edging along for the purpose, and looking her undisguised astonishment.
Louise tried to feel triumphant; but as the hour dragged its slow length along her heart was very heavy. What a strange meeting it was—strange, at least, to her who had been used to better things. In the first place, the number, all told, counting the four who filled the Morgan pew, amounted to twenty-three. Now, when twenty-three people are placed in a room designed for the accommodation of three hundred, the effect, to say the least, is not social. Then these twenty-three seemed to have made a study of seating themselves in as widespread a manner as the conditions of light and darkness would admit. Dorothy saw this, and lost herself in trying to plan where the congregation would have been likely to sit had the other lamps been lighted. That condition of inability to sing, which seems to be the chronic state of many prayer-meetings, was in full force here. Mr. Butler announced a hymn, read it, and earnestly invited a leader; but none responded. Louise felt her cheeks flushing in sympathy with the minister's embarrassment, and never more earnestly wished that she could sing. Even Dorothy, conscious that she could sing, was so far roused by sympathy that she felt the bumpings of her frightened heart, caused by the courageous question, "What if I should?" Not that she had the least idea of doing so, but the bare thought made her blood race through her veins at lightning speed. At last a quavering voice took up the cross, and made a cross for every one who tried to join in the unknown and uninviting melody.
This prayer-meeting does not need a lengthy description; there are, alas! too many like it:—Two long prayers, called for by the pastor, between two silences, which waited for some one to "occupy the time." A few dreary sentences from Deacon Jones, who is always in every meeting, detailing his weary story of how things used to be when Mr. Somebody Else was our pastor. Another attempt at a song of praise, which made John's lip curl more emphatically than the first one had; and then the pastor arose to make some remarks. How interesting he could be at the supper-table; how bright and pleasant he could be when roasting apples and popping corn! These things the Morgans knew; so did nearly every one of the other nineteen.
Why was he so uninteresting in the prayer-meeting? Louise tried to analyze it. What he said was true and good; why did it fall like empty bubbles on her heart or vanish away? His theme was prayer. Did he mean the words he was repeating, "If ye shall ask anything in my name, I will do it"? Did he understand what those words meant? If so, why did not he explain them to others? Dorothy wondered at this; she had not gotten so far as to doubt them—that is, she knew they were Bible words; she saw Mr. Butler open his Bible and read them from it; but, of course, it didn't mean what it said. "If it did," said poor Dorothy to herself, "I would ask—oh, I would ask for ever so many things." And then her mind went off in a dream of what it would ask for, if only those words meant what they said! And Mr. Butler talked, generalized, told wonderful and blessed, ay, and solemn truths, much as a boy might tell over the words of his spelling lesson. Did the pastor feel those words? Did he realize their meaning? Had he been asking? If so, for what? Had he received it? If he had not received, and still believed the words he read, why did not he set himself to find the reason for the delay? Poor Louise! Her mind roved almost as badly as Dorothy's, only over more solemn ground. As for John, his face told, to a close observer, just what he thought: he did not believe a word, not a word, of what had been read, nor of what was being said. More than that, he did not believe that the minister believed it. Was there any good in getting John to stay to prayer-meeting?
[CHAPTER XV.]
OPPORTUNITIES.
A CHURCH social had been one of the places against which the senior Morgans had set their faces like flints. Not that there had been much occasion for peremptory decisions. John, when he arrived at the proper age for attending, had grown away from the church into a lower circle, and Dorothy was frightened at the mere thought of going anywhere alone. So occasional sharp criticisms as to the proceedings, reports of which floated to them from time to time, was the extent of their interference. But Louise had weighed the matter carefully, and was bent on an attendance at the church social. Had she taken time to notice it, she might have been amused over the various forms of objection that met her plans.
"I'm afraid they will think the Morgan family have turned out en masse," had her husband said when he listened to the scheme. "I'm in favour of our going, because I think the people will like to meet you, and you will like some of them very well; but wouldn't it be better to get acquainted with them ourselves before getting Dorothy into society? She will be frightened and awkward, and will be very far from enjoying it. John won't go, of course."
"Lewis," his wife said impressively, "I believe John will go; I am very anxious to have him, and I feel impressed with the belief that God will put it into his heart." The curious look on her husband's face emboldened her to ask a question which had been troubling her. "Lewis, you sometimes act almost as though you didn't believe such matters were subjects of prayer at all. Are these things too small for His notice, when he himself refers us to the fading wild flowers for lessons?"
Lewis studied his answer carefully; he admitted that, of course, we had a right to pray about everything; but then—well, the truth was, she certainly had a way of attaching importance to matters which seemed to him trivial. Take, for instance, that tea: he had not understood then, did not now, why she should have been so anxious about it; and as for this matter, what particular good was it going to do to take John to the church social?