Sleigh-bells jingled merrily outside the door; one family after another came trooping in, muffled to the ears, and moved demurely up the central or side aisles to their high-backed pews.
The sunlight found its way in under the old-fashioned fan-shaped blinds at the tops of the high windows, and rested upon gray hair and brown, on figures bowed with grief and age, on restless, eager children, on the pulpit itself, and finally upon the golden-edged leaves of the old Bible.
Still the people came in. A hymn was given out and sung. While Harold was lifting his soul to heaven on the wings of his prayer, he could not help hearing the noise of heavy boots in the meeting-house entry, stamping off the snow. His fervent “Amen” was the signal for a draft of cold air from the doors, followed by a dozen late comers.
After the sermon, which was so simple and straightforward that it went directly to the hearts of the people, he hastened to confer with his deacons.
“The bell didn’t ring this morning, Brother Fairweather. What was the matter?” he asked, after a warm hand-grasp all round.
“Why, the fact is, sir, there ain’t no bell.”
“That is, none to speak of,” put in Deacon Stimpson apologetically. “There’s a bell up there, but it got so cracked an’ out o’ tune that nobody could stan’ it, sick or well.”
The Rev. Harold Olsen’s eyes twinkled. “How long have you gone without this unfortunate bell?”
“Oh! a matter o’ two or three years, I guess.”