fend their families. Whatever the
old reason was, the new is sufficient. Men must sit near the pew doors
now on account of the _hoops_ of the ladies. The cause is different, the
effect is the same.

Father, then, sits at the head of the pew; mother next; Aunt Clara next;
next I, and then Jerusha. That has been the arrangement ever since I can
remember. Any change in our places would be as fatal to our devotions as
the dislodgment of Baron Rothschild from his particular pillar was once
to the business of the London Stock Exchange. He could not negotiate if
not at his post. We could not worship if not in our precise places. I
think, by the fussing and fidgeting which taking seats in the church
always causes, that everybody has the same feeling.

It was Sunday afternoon. The good minister, Parson Oliver, had finished
his sermon. The text was--well, I can't pretend to remember. Aunt
Clara's behavior in meeting, and what she said to us that afternoon,
have put the text, sermon, and all out of my head forever. That is no
matter; or rather, it is all the better; for when the same sermon comes
again, in its triennial round, I shall not recognize an old
acquaintance.

The sermon finished, we took up our hymn-books, of course. But the
minister gave out no hymn. He sat down with a patient look at the choir,
as much as to say, "Now, do your worst!" Then we understood that we
were to be treated to an extra performance, not in our books. There had
been a renewal of interest in the choir, and there was a new
singing-master. We were to have the results of the late practisings and
the first fruits of the new school. The piece they sung was that in
which occur the lines,--

"I'd soar and touch the heavenly strings,
And vie with Gabriel, while he sings,
In notes almost divine!"

We always, when we rise during the singing, face round to the choir. I
don't know why. Perhaps it is to complete our view of the congregation,
since during the rest of the time we look the other way, and, unless we
faced about, should see only half. I like to peep at father, to discover
whether he appreciates the performance. To-day he just turned his head
away. Mother sat down. Aunt Clara looked straight ahead, and her
old-fashioned bonnet hid her face; but I could discover that something
more than usual was working under her cap. I looked at every one of the
singers, and then at the players, from the big bass-viol down to the
tenor, and not