"General, who's your friend?"
"Mr. John Ogden, of Crofield, away up on the Cookyhutchie River. I netted him at the door," was the reply, in the same tone.
"Good catch?" asked the other.
"Just as good as I was, Judge, forty years ago. I'll tell you how that was some day."
"Decidedly raw material, I should say."
"Well, so was I. I was no more knowing than he is. I remember what it is to be far away from home."
The hoarse, subdued whispers ceased; the two gentle men looked grim and severe again. Then there was a grand burst of music from the organ, the vast congregation stood up, and Jack rose with them.
He felt solemn enough, there was no doubt of that; but what he said to himself unconsciously took this shape:
"Jingo! If this isn't the greatest going to church I ever did! Hear that voice! The organ too—what music! Don't I wish Molly was here! I wish all the family were here."
The service went on and Jack listened attentively, in spite of a strong tendency in his eyes to wander among the pillars to the galleries, up into the lofty vault above him, or around among the pews full of people. He knew it was a good sermon and that the music was good, singing and all—especially when the congregation joined in "Old Hundred" and another old hymn that he knew. Still he had an increasing sense of being a very small fellow in a very large place. When he raised his head, after the benediction, he saw the owner of the pew turn toward him, bow low, and hold out his hand. Jack shook hands, of course.