herself;
she went straight up the centre aisle and took a seat about half way in
the building, at the end of a pew already filled all but that one
place. The house was going to be crowded and a great many people were
already there, though it was still very early.

The warmth after the cold streets, and the silence, and the solitude,
after being exposed to Mrs. Pinchbeck's tongue and to her observation,
made a lull in Eleanor's mind for a moment. Then, with the waywardness
of action which thought and feeling often take in unwonted situations,
she began to wonder whether it could be right to be there--not only for
her, but for anybody. That large, light, plain apartment, looking not
half so stately as the saloon of a country house; could that be a
proper place for people to meet for divine service? It was better than
a barn, still was that a fit _church?_ The windows blank and staring
with white glass; the woodwork unadorned and merely painted; a little
stir of feet coming in and garments rustling, the only sound. She
missed the full swell of the organ, which itself might have seemed to
clothe even bare boards. Nothing of all that; nothing of what she
esteemed dignified, or noble, or sacred; a mere business-looking house,
with that simple raised platform and little desk--was Eleanor right to
be there? Was anybody else? Poor child, she felt wrong every way, there
or not there; but these thoughts tormented her. They tormented her only
till Mr. Rhys came in. When she saw him, as it had been that evening in
the barn, they quieted instantly. To her mind he was a guaranty for the
righteousness of all in which he was concerned; different as it might
be from all to which she had been accustomed. Such a guaranty, that
Eleanor's mind was almost ready to leap to the other conclusion, and
account wrong whatever the difference put on another side from him. She
watched him now, as he went with a quick step to the pulpit, or
platform as she called it, and mounting it, kneeled down beside one of
the chairs that stood there. Eleanor was accustomed to that action; she
had seen clergymen a million of times come into the pulpit, and always
kneel; but it was not like this. Always an ample cushion lay ready for
the knees that sank upon it; the step was measured; the movement slow;
every line was of grace and propriety; the full-robed form bowed
reverently, and the face was buried in a white cloud of cambric. Here,
a tall figure, attired only i