arly service. It
isn't daylight yet."

"I know," says Cousin E. E., with a sigh, "but her church is a little
higher than ours."

"Higher," says I; "then there is some meeting-house a notch above
yours?"

"Yes, cousin," says she, mournfully, "but we are creeping up. Every year
brings us a step nearer."

"Just so," says I, wondering what she meant.

"By and by we shall have confession," says she.

"Oh," says I, "there isn't a meeting-house on Sprucehill that would take
in a member till she had made a confession of religion."

Cousin E. E. shook her head, and observed that I didn't understand,
which riled me a little, having been a member--well, no matter how long.

"Even now we have humiliation and penance."

I was trying to swallow a mouthful of the bitter toast and riley coffee,
and couldn't in my heart contradict her.

"To that end we get up early, cast aside sleep, and, in all weather, go
on foot to the altar. Each year the church is opened, and the candles
lighted earlier and earlier, as souls more clearly see their way to the
true faith."

"Just so," says I; "by and by they will be good enough to light up, and
open the day before, I suppose."

The clock on the mantel-shelf struck. Cousin E. E. started up, and put
both hands in her muff. I followed her out of the door, and into the
street.

Well, sisters, if there is a desolate spot on earth, it can be found in
the streets of a great city after the lights have been put out, and
while the sky is gray. To pass by houses in which thousands and
thousands are sleeping, is like wandering through the lonesomeness of a
graveyard. The morning was awful cold; before we got to Lexington Avenue
the veil was stiff on my face. I felt the tears a-freezing on my cheeks,
and my teeth chattered so that I couldn't speak. When we reached St.
Albans--that is the name of Cousin E. E.'s church--two such shivery
mortals you never saw. I say, sisters, there wouldn't have been much use
in warming us against a good fire in any place just then. I don't mean
to be satirical or irreverent, but when you go to early service at the
break of day, and in the depths of winter, I think ice-water and
snow-drifts might make a solemn impression on the sinful heart.

XVIII.

HIGH CHURCH.

St. Albans may be a High Church, though I couldn't see it; but it
certainly isn't very sizeable; and as for coldness, the very curls on my
head shivered as if they grew there.

Cold, yes; I