244 Hans Brinker

He could not but think of the solemn funeral procession,
winding by torchlight through those lofty aisles, and bearing
its silent burden toward a dark opening whence a slab had
been lifted, in readiness for its coming. It was something to
feel that his sister Mabel, who died in her flower, was lying
in a sunny churchyard, where a brook rippled and sparkled in
the daylight, and waving trees whispered together all night
long; where flowers might nestle close to the headstone, and
moon and stars shed their peace upon it, and morning birds
sing sweetly overhead.

Then he looked up from the pavement, and rested his eyes
upon the carved oaken pulpit, exquisitely beautiful in design
and workmanship. He could not see the minister, — though,
not long before, he had watched him slowly ascending its
winding stair, —a mild-faced man, wearing a ruff about his
neck, and a short cloak reaching nearly to the knee.

Meantime, the great church had been silently filling. Its
pews were sombre with men, and its centre radiant with
women in their fresh Sunday attire. Suddenly a soft rustling
spread through the building. All eyes were turned toward the
minister now appearing above the pulpit.

Although the sermon was spoken slowly, Ben could under-
stand little of what was said; but, when the hymn came, he
joined in with all his heart. A thousand voices lifted in love
and praise offered a grander language, that he could readily
comprehend.

Once he was startled, during a pause in the service, by
seeing a little bag suddenly shaken before him. It had a
tinkling bell at its side, and was attached to a long stick
carried by one of the deacons of the church. Not relying
solely upon the mute appeal of the poor-boxes, fastened to