with my head tumbling sleepily now and then
against my father's shoulder. Slowly the scene comes back, in every
least detail, the smallest sights and sounds of that morning all here,
but all thin and faint and frail, spun of the gossamer web of memory.
Can I hold them till they are set down? I shall have to eat another
precious white lozenge from my bag.

My cheek had bumped my father's shoulder again when I caught a sudden
whiff of peppermint drops and raised my head just in time to see an
old lady across the aisle whisk her dress down over her petticoat
pocket. For a few moments I watched her in envy, for her mouth was
moving ever so little and I could fancy the delicious taste. But how
could she enjoy the candy and not make her mouth go more than that, I
wondered. I did not shut my eyes again, but sat very still against my
father's arm and let my eyes wander around the church.

Ours was one of the "new" churches. The beautiful old "meeting house"
at the head of the village green, with its exquisite white spire and
its pillard pulpit and windows of "common" glass, purpling with age,
was the property of the Methodists--which in some manner I could not
then understand (and do not clearly yet) was always a source of
resentment in our congregation. Our church had stained windows, a
chocolate brown field with white stars in the centre and around the
edges tiny squares of many colors, atrocious reds, blues and yellows.
These windows were opened a little at the top, and through the
openings came soft sounds of Spring, the wind racing among the budding
branches, the sudden call of a bird, and occasionally the crooning,
sleepy cackle of hens from a distance. Now and then a cloud drifted
by, across the sun, dimming the interior for a moment, so that the
minister's voice seemed to come from farther off. The sunlight through
the stained glass projected colored splotches here and there. I
wondered if the people knew how homely they looked with those
splotches on their faces, like great birth-marks. That suggested a
pastime to relieve the monotony.

Starting with the choir (which consisted of four people, boxed in
before the organ at the right of the pulpit) I began to count people
with colored spots. First there was the tenor with a purple spot on
his left cheek and on his sandy hair and beard. But the organist and
soprano were splashed with scarlet. Then I forget to count, because I
noticed that the 'alto had a new violet hat