The Rev. Reuben looked grave. "It is possible he may say something you may approve of. I grieve to say that even the pulpit is touched by what is called the modern spirit."
"But I hear that 'Zion' is regaining some of its former glory."
"The congregations are large, I admit; but I fear in these days the people have itching ears."
"That has been true, I am told, of every generation."
"It may be so. Yet thirty years ago—aye, twenty years ago—the people endured sound doctrine even when it was galling to the flesh."
"And to-day, grandfather?"
The old man shook his head and smiled sadly. "I fear me they have no stomach for strong meat," he said, pathetically.
"Well, it is not a bit of use trying to swallow what we cannot digest," Rufus said, with a laugh. "However, I will hear this Rev. Marshall Brook for myself."
He felt painfully conspicuous as he walked into the chapel behind the stooping form of his grandfather—the little grandmother was too feeble to attend. He thought that everybody was eyeing him with an unnecessary amount of curiosity. He slipped into the far corner of the pew, the place where he had spent many a weary and painful hour in the years gone by, and for awhile he kept his eyes fixed upon the floor. A quiet, slow-moving voluntary was being played on the organ, around him was a faint rustle of silks and the shuffling of feet. From the vestibule came a subdued hum of voices as acquaintances met and exchanged Christmas greetings.
Rufus was carried back again to the days of his boyhood and youth. The present was forgotten. He had never been away from Tregannon. He was still a lad. He had a jack-knife in his pocket and a white alley and a piece of cobbler's wax and several yards of string. That was Billy Beswarick's suppressed cough coming from a neighbouring pew, and he was sure Dick Daddo was behind him waiting to pull his hair.