I could only follow, wondering all the while if aunt was not losing her mind.
A sweet-faced girl met us with a warm welcome to aunt and an earnest look at me. As she led the way within, aunt whispered:
"One of the monuments, Clara."
"What? I don't know what you mean."
"Her name is Maggie," she quickly whispered back; "used to be called 'wild Maggie;' was one of the worst girls in this region. Never mind now, will tell you more hereafter. Take a good look at her, you'll see her again."
Then I heard singing like the songs of many angels. A door swung open. We entered. It was a great company of children, black and white, some with sweet sad faces; others with evil looks, but all singing. Soon Maggie came in from another door and sat among them and I could hear her voice ring out in joyful strains, leading the rest.
There was prayer and Bible reading, and such a good talk by a gentleman. It seemed like heaven, while many of the children, some partly blind, some lame, some pale and sad-faced, gathered around after meeting was out and seized aunt Joanna's hand, and seemed so happy. Another lady was there to whom they all pressed for a smile and a word.
"That lady," said aunt, "is Sir Christopher Wren."
"What can you mean?" I asked. "Sir Christopher Wren was a man who died in England more than a hundred years ago."
Aunt Joanna only laughed and said, "And came to life again, my child. This is he, only greater."