She entered, and a sad looking woman showed her to
a seat. She sat down square, fixing her eyes at once on the pulpit,
rather dimly visible over many pews, as if it were one of the
mountains that surrounded her Jerusalem. The place was but scantily
lighted, for the community at present could ill afford to burn
daylight. When the worship commenced, and the congregation rose to
sing, she got up with a jerk that showed the duty as unwelcome as
unexpected, but seemed by the way she settled herself in her seat
for the prayer, already thereby reconciled to the differences
between Scotch church customs and English chapel customs. She went
to sleep softly, and woke warily as the prayer came to a close.
While the congregation again sang, the minister who had officiated
hitherto left the pulpit, and another ascended to preach. When he
began to read the text, the woman gave a little start, and leaning
forward, peered very hard to gain a satisfactory sight of his face
between the candles on each side of it, but without success; she
soon gave up her attempted scrutiny, and thence forward seemed to
listen with marked attention. The sermon was a simple, earnest,
at times impassioned appeal to the hearts and consciences of the
congregation. There was little attempt in it at the communication
of knowledge of any kind, but the most indifferent hearer must have
been aware that the speaker was earnestly straining after something.
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