unique one in Albert's experience, and
the religious observances such as he never forgot. The place was a
little square, unpainted building, not larger than a country
schoolhouse, and when Telly and he entered and seated themselves on one
of the wooden settees that stood in rows, not over a dozen people were
there. On a small platform in front was a cottage organ, and beside it
a small desk. A few more entered after they did, and then a florid-faced
man arose, and, followed by a short and stout young lady, walked forward
to the platform. The girl seated herself at the organ, and the man,
after turning up the lamp on the organ, opened the book of gospel hymns,
and said in a nasal tone, "We will naow commence our sarvices by singin'
the forty-third psalm, and all are requested to rise an' jine." In the
centre of the room hung a large lamp, and two more on brackets at the
side shed a weak light on the gathering, but no one seemed to feel it
necessary to look for the forty-third selection. Albert and Telly arose
with the rest, and the girl at the organ began to chase the slow tune up
and down the keys. Then the red-faced man started the singing, a little
below the key, and the congregation followed. To Albert's surprise,
Telly's voice, clear and distinct, at his side joined with the rest. A
long prayer, full of halting repetitions, by the man at the desk,
followed, and then another hymn, and after that came a painful pause. To
Albert's mind it was becoming serious, and he began to wonder how it
would end, when there ensued one of the most weird and yet pathetic
prayers he had ever listened to. It was uttered by an old lady, tall,
gaunt, and white-haired, who arose from the end of a settee close to the
wall and beneath one of the smoke-dimmed lamps. It could not be classed
as a prayer exactly, for when she began her utterance she looked around
as if to find sympathy in the assembled faces, and her deep-set piercing
eyes seemed alight with intense feeling. At first she grasped the back
of the settee in front with her long fleshless fingers, and then later
clasped and finally raised them above her upturned face, while her body
swayed with the vehemence of her feelings. Her garb, too, lent a pathos,
for it was naught but a faded calico dress that hung from her attenuated
frame like the raiment of a scarecrow. It may have been the shadowy room
or the mournful dirge of the nearby ocean that added an uncanny touch to
her words and l