For more than an hour, Grace lay on my bosom,
occasionally patting her hand on my cheeks, as the child caresses its
mother. This was an old habit of hers, and it was one I was equally
delighted and pained to have her resume, now we were of the age and
stature of man and woman.
The next day was Sunday, and Grace insisted on my driving her to
church. This was done, accordingly, in a very old-fashioned, but very
easy Boston chaise, that had belonged to my mother, and with very
careful driving. The congregation, like the church-edifice of
St. Michael's, was very small, being confined, with some twenty or
thirty exceptions, to the family and dependants of Clawbonny.
Mr. Hardinge's little flock was hedged in by other denominations on
every side, and it was not an easy matter to break through the
barriers that surrounded it. Then he was not possessed with the spirit
of proselytism, contenting himself with aiding in the spiritual
advancement of those whom Providence had consigned to his care. On the
present occasion, however, the little building was full, and that was
as much as could have happened had it been as large as St. Peter's
itself. The prayers were devoutly and fervently read, and the sermon
was plain and filled with piety.
My sister professed herself in no manner wearied with the exertion.
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