Aunt Eunice, for she adored her
uncle, but she merely said that she thought Uncle Henry did look a
little thin, and she supposed he was tired Sunday, and it was the
only day he had to rest; then she abruptly changed the whole subject
by wondering if the Ramseys across the river would let Jessy go to
church if she trimmed a hat for her with some red velvet and a
feather which she had in her possession.

"No, they wouldn't!" replied her aunt Maria, sharply, at once
diverted. "I can tell you just exactly what they would do, if you
were to trim up a hat with that red velvet and that feather and give
it to that young one. Her good-for-nothing mother would have it on
her own head in no time, and go flaunting out in it with that man
that boards there."

Nothing could excel the acrimonious accent with which Aunt Maria
weighed down the "man who boards there," and the acrimony was
heightened by the hoarseness of her voice. Her cold was still far
from well, but Aunt Maria stayed at home from church for nothing
short of pneumonia.

The church was about half a mile distant. The meeting was held in a
little chapel built out like an architectural excrescence at the side
of the great, oblong, wooden structure, with its piercing steeple.
The chapel windows blazed with light. People were flocking in. As
they entered, a young lady began to play on an out-of-tune piano,
which Judge Josiah Saunders had presented to the church. She played a
Moody-and-Sankey hymn as a sort of prologue, although nobody sang it.
It was a curious custom which prevailed in the Amity church. A
Moody-and-Sankey hymn was always played in evening meetings instead
of the morning voluntary on the great organ.

Maria and her two aunts moved forward and seated themselves. Maria
looked absently at the smooth expanse of hair which showed below the
hat of the girl who was playing. The air was played very slowly,
otherwise the little audience might have danced a jig to it. Maria
thought of the meetings which she used to attend in Edgham, and how
she used to listen to the plaint of the whippoorwill on the
river-bank while the little organ gave out its rich, husky drone.
This, somehow, did not seem so religious to her. She remembered how
she had used to be conscious of Wollaston Lee's presence, and how she
had hoped he would walk home with her, and she reflected with what
shame and vague terror she now held him constantly in mind. Then she
thought of George Ramsey, and