the spiritual!

"Yes, I feel for Mrs. Bennington," continued Mrs. Haldene. "We have to
submit to our boys' running around with actresses; but to marry them!"

"And married life, I understand, seldom agrees with them. They
invariably return to the stage. I wonder if this woman has ever been
married before?"

"I shouldn't be surprised. For my part, I'm very glad the ceremony
will not be performed in the church. Hush!" with a warning glance over
her shoulder.

There was a sudden craning of necks, an agitation among the hats and
bonnets. Down the aisle came a handsome, dignified woman in widow's
weeds, a woman who was easily fifty-six, but who looked as if she had
just crossed the threshold of the forties. Her face was serene, the
half-smile on her lips was gentle and sweet her warm brown eyes viewed
the world peacefully. Ah, how well she knew that to-day this temple of
worship was but a den of jackals, ready to rend her if she so much as
hesitated, so much as faltered in look or speech! Never should they
feed themselves upon her sorrow. She went on, smiling here and there.
The low hum, the pallid lights, the murmur from the organ, all seemed
cruelly accented. Her pew was third from the chancel; she was but
half-way through the gantlet of curious eyes.

Following her was a young girl of twenty. She was youth in all its
beauty and charm and fragrance. Many a young masculine heart throbbed
violently as she passed, and straightway determined to win fame and
fortune, if for no other purpose than to cast them at her feet. This
was Patty Bennington.

The two reached their pew without mishap, and immediately rested their
heads reverently upon the rail in prayer. Presently the music ceased,
the rector mounted the pulpit, and the day's service began. I doubt if
many could tell you what the sermon was about that day.

No other place offers to the speculative eye of the philosopher so
many varied phases of humanity as the church. In the open, during the
week-days, there is little pretense, one way or the other; but in
church, on Sunday, everybody, or nearly everybody, seems to have
donned a mask, a transparent mask, a smug mask, the mask of the known
hypocrite. The man who is a brute to his wife goes meekly to his seat;
the miser, who has six days pinched his tenants or evicted them,
passes the collection plate, his face benevolent; the woman whose
tongue is that of the liar and the gossip, who has done her best to
smirch th