Chapter XVI.
A Deserted Flock.
Bostonians have been accused of putting too much Sabbath into their Sundays; but long may it be before the noisy waves of business or pleasure shall wash away that quiet island in the weary sea of days. There is a suggestion of peace, if not of sacredness, in the silence almost like that of the country, in the closed doors and empty streets; and when the bells
"Sprinkle with holy sounds the air, as the priest with the hyssop
Sprinkles the congregation, and scatters blessings upon them,"
he must be insensible indeed who does not—at least, momentarily—remember that there is another world than this.
On the morning after his return, Mr. Southard resumed his old Sunday habit of breakfasting in his own room, and none of the family saw him before service. He always went to his church early, and alone, and never spoke to any one on the way.
"Margaret, you really ought to go with us this time," Mrs. Lewis said. "I think you might unbend for once."
"To stoop from the presence of God to the presence of a creature is bending too far," was the reply. "Such bending breaks. I and my pet are going to see the heavens open, and the Lord descend; are we not, Dorothea, gift of God?"
Mrs. Lewis turned herself about before the cheval-glass to see the effect of a superb toilet that she had made in honor of the occasion. "Ah! well," she said. "You may be right. I have indeed a faithful heart, but a woefully skeptical head; shall we go now?"
The night had been very sharp for the season; but when they all went out together, the sun was shining warmly through the morning haze, the air was still, and the dripping, splendid branches of the October trees were hesitating between hoarfrost and dew, and glittering with both. People in holiday attire, and with holiday faces, went past, the bells clanged out, then paused, and left only a tremulous murmur in the air, the very spirit of sound. Far away, a chime rang an old-fashioned hymn, in that quaint, stiff way that chimes have.