eep our thoughts from heaven. Were I the minister himself, I must
needs look. One girl is white muslin from the waist upward and black
silk downward to her slippers; a second blushes from top-knot to
shoe-tie, one universal scarlet; another shines of a pervading yellow,
as if she had made a garment of the sunshine. The greater part,
however, have adopted a milder cheerfulness of hue. Their veils,
especially when the wind raises them, give a lightness to the general
effect and make them appear like airy phantoms as they flit up the
steps and vanish into the sombre doorway. Nearly all--though it is
very strange that I should know it--wear white stockings, white as
snow, and neat slippers laced crosswise with black ribbon pretty high
above the ankles. A white stocking is infinitely more effective than a
black one.

Here comes the clergyman, slow and solemn, in severe simplicity,
needing no black silk gown to denote his office. His aspect claims my
reverence, but cannot win my love. Were I to picture Saint Peter
keeping fast the gate of Heaven and frowning, more stern than pitiful,
on the wretched applicants, that face should be my study. By middle
age, or sooner, the creed has generally wrought upon the heart or been
attempered by it. As the minister passes into the church the bell
holds its iron tongue and all the low murmur of the congregation dies
away. The gray sexton looks up and down the street and then at my
window-curtain, where through the small peephole I half fancy that he
has caught my eye. Now every loiterer has gone in and the street lies
asleep in the quiet sun, while a feeling of loneliness comes over me,
and brings also an uneasy sense of neglected privileges and duties.
Oh, I ought to have gone to church! The bustle of the rising
congregation reaches my ears. They are standing up to pray. Could I
bring my heart into unison with those who are praying in yonder church
and lift it heavenward with a fervor of supplication, but no distinct
request, would not that be the safest kind of prayer?--"Lord, look
down upon me in mercy!" With that sentiment gushing from my soul,
might I not leave all the rest to him?

Hark! the hymn! This, at least, is a portion of the service which I
can enjoy better than if I sat within the walls, where the full choir
and the massive melody of the organ would fall with a weight upon me.
At this distance it thrills through my frame and plays upon my
heart-strings with a pleasure bot