ere was a Presbyterian "meeting-house" two miles east of Wilkinsburg,
where a large, wealthy congregation worshipped. Rev. James Graham was
pastor, and unlike other Presbyterians, they never "profaned the
sanctuary" by singing "human compositions," but confined themselves to
Rouse's version of David's Psalms, as did our own denomination. This
aided that laxness of discipline which permitted Big Jane, Adaline and
brother William to attend sometimes, under care of neighbors. Once I was
allowed to accompany them.

I was the proud possessor of a pair of red shoes, which I carried rolled
up in my 'kerchief while we walked the two miles. We stopped in the
woods; my feet were denuded of their commonplace attire and arrayed in
white hose, beautifully clocked, and those precious slices, and my poor
conscience tortured about my vanity. The girls also exchanged theirs for
morocco slippers. We concealed our walking shoes under a mossy log and
proceeded to the meeting-house.

It was built in the form of a T, of hewn logs, and the whole structure,
both inside and out, was a combination of those soft grays and browns
with which nature colors wood, and in its close setting of primeval
forest, made a harmonious picture. Atone side lay a graveyard; birds
sang in the surrounding trees, some of which reached out their giant
arms and touched the log walls. Swallows had built nests under the
eaves outside, and some on the rough projections inside, and joined
their twitter to the songs of other birds and the rich organ
accompaniment of wind and trees.

There were two sermons, and in the intermission, a church sociable, in
fact if not in name. Friends who lived twenty miles apart, met here,
exchanged greetings and news, gave notices and invitations, and obeyed
the higher law of kindness under protest of their Calvinistic
consciences. In this breathing-time we ate our lunch, went to the
nearest house and had a drink from the spring which ran through the
stone milk-house. It was a day full of sight-seeing and of solemn, grand
impressions.

Of the two sermons I remember but one, and this from the text "Many are
called but few are chosen," and the comments were Calvinism of the most
rigid school. On our way home, my brother William--three years older
than I--was very silent and thoughtful for some time, then spoke of the
sermon, of which I entirely approved, but he stoutly declared that he
did not believe it; did not believe God called people