What a soft silence hovered!
The old Gothic Church was my own ideal.
“Uncle, let us fall in and rest!” I cried.
The morning service was proceeding.
Alas and alas!
Not one soul was there.
Is this a religious city?
The inside was compact of heavenly purple air. Mr. Bishop—whatever he may be—gestured like another being from a loftier realm. A beautiful boy (there’s no greater fascination than a boy with a prayer-book) supported the service. Intangibleness of speech is itself a divine charm.
“Will you mind asking Mr. Bishop whether he wants a sweeping girl? I wish I were given just a chance to clean such a holy church, uncle.”
Then I looked up to Mr. Secretary.