en spent in an
Episcopal church in Philadelphia, the extreme plainness of the
meeting-house on the hill brought a sense of acute wonderment. The
contrast was so marked. There, in the city, was the large, high-vaulted
church whose in-streaming light was softened by exquisite stained
windows and revealed each detail of construction and color harmoniously
consistent. Here, in the country, was the square, low-ceilinged
meeting-house through whose open windows the glaring light relentlessly
intensified the whiteness of the walls and revealed more plainly each
flaw and knot in the unpainted pine benches. Yet the meeting-house on
the hill was strangely, strongly representative of the frank, honest,
unpretentious people who worshipped there, and after the first wave of
surprise a feeling of interest and reverence held her.

It was a unique sight for the city girl. The rows of white-capped women
were separated from the rows of bearded men by a low partition built
midway down the body of the church. Each sex entered the meeting-house
through a different door and sat in its apportioned half of the
building. On each side of the room rows of black hooks were set into the
walls. On these hooks the sisters hung their bonnets and the shawls and
the brethren placed their hats and overcoats during the service.

The preachers, varying in number from two to six, sat before a long
table in the front part of the meeting-house. When the duty of preaching
devolved upon one of them he simply rose from his seat and delivered his
message.

As Aunt Maria and her two followers took their seats on a bench near the
front of the church a preacher rose.

"Let us join in singing--has any one a choice?"

Miss Lee started as a woman's voice answered, "Number one hundred
forty-seven." However, her surprise merged into other emotions as the
old hymn rose in the low-ceilinged room. There was no accompaniment of
any musical instrument, just a harmonious blending of the deep-toned
voices of the brethren with the sweet voices of the sisters. The music
swelled in full, deliberate rhythm, its calm earnestness bearing witness
to the fact that every word of the hymn was uttered in a spirit of
worship.

Maria Metz sang very softly, but Phoebe's young voice rose clearly in
the familiar words, "Jesus, Lover of my soul."

Miss Lee listened a moment to the sweet voice of the child by her side,
then she, too, joined in the singing--feeling the words, as she had