lounged in delicious idleness, without helm or oar, just
drifting.

To visit Denver and not see Dean Hart at the Cathedral would be an
irreparable loss. We called upon him, and found him, as he always is,
genial, animated, and brimful of good humor and hospitality. Busy as he
also always is, he yet found time to call at the "Lucania," and to tell
more than one of his good stories.

Some of our party attended a missionary meeting of ladies, held in the
Cathedral, and brought from thence impressions of earnest workers, of
bright, telling speeches, and of much hospitable good cheer.

The Cathedral at Denver is a Romanesque structure, of quite stately
proportions, with an effective interior; some very good stained glass;
a choir screen of wrought iron, interesting in workmanship; and the
whole place has a comfortable sumptuousness quite attractive. It is the
intention to face the outside, some time or other, with native
sandstone, and the interior also with some suitable material of more
ornamental character.

I have a memory of a service held in that Cathedral, which in sad
solemnity I have never seen surpassed.

It was the funeral of a gentleman who lost his life in the wild waters
of the Grand Canon of the Colorado. He was with a railroad surveying
party; the boat he was in was upset, and the waters were so violent,
that his body was instantly sucked down in the boiling depths, and
never more was found.

His dear wife was in London, when the news reached her. At once she
returned to Denver, and hoped that once more she would lay eyes on her
beloved dead. But all in vain. No human hand could reach the depths,
where all that was mortal of her love, was forever hidden.

In this sad condition of circumstances, it was determined to hold the
funeral services, as if the body were present, to his wife and friends,
as it was to God, Whose All-Seeing Eye beholds all depths.

The mourning group was met at the door of the church; the sentences
were read as usual, proceeding up the aisle; the service went on in the
accustomed manner, and the words of committal, "Earth to earth, ashes
to ashes," were read, with the added awfulness of that body being we
knew not where. The thrilling silence and tears of that congregation
were almost painful as the words were uttered. Then came the final
prayers, and, while we were yet on our knees, the organist, in deep,
muffled tones, whispered out the Dead March in "Saul."

No one moved un