[Illustration:  This was a new kind of church.]

And the pulpit!  Jot’s eyes returned to it constantly in wondering admiration.  There was a steep flight of stairs leading up to it on each side, and an enormous umbrella-like sounding-board was poised heavily above it.  The pulpit itself was round and tail and hung above the heads of the congregation, making the practice of looking up at the good old minister a neck-aching process.  Directly beneath the pulpit was a seat facing the people.  It was empty now, but a hundred years ago, had the lads but known it, the deacons had sat there and the “tithing-man,” whose duty it was to go about waking up the dozers with his long wand.  It was called the Deacon’s Seat, and if sometimes the deacons themselves had dropped off into peaceful naps—­what then?  Did the “tithing-man” nudge them sharply with his stick, or was he dozing, too?

There are still a few of these old landmarks left in the country.  Now and then we run across them and get a distinct flavor of old times, and it is worth going a good many miles to see the inside of one of them.  By just shutting one’s eyes and “making believe” a little, how easy it would be to conjure up our dear old grandmothers in their great scoop bonnets, and grandfathers with their high coat collars coming nearly to their bald crowns!  And the Deacon’s Seat under the pulpit—­how easy to make believe the deacons in claw-hammer coats and queer frilled shirt bosoms!

The people Jot and Kent saw were ordinary, modern people, and their modern clothes looked oddly out of date against the quaint old setting.  Jot thought with a twinge of sympathy how hard the seats must feel, and how shoulders must ache against the perfectly straight-up-and-down backs.  He felt a sudden pity for his great-grandmother and great-uncles and aunts.

This especial old church, box-like and unchurchly without and ancient within, was rarely used for worship except in the summer months.  Then there were services in it as often as a minister could be found to conduct them.  The three young adventurers had stumbled upon it in the dark and overslept out of sheer physical weariness.  It was up in one of the old choir pews in the high gallery they had wakened—­or Jot had wakened—­to the strains of the beautiful hymn his mother loved.

The whole explanation was simple enough when it was explained.  Kent and Jot worked it out slowly in their own minds.

Meanwhile Old Tilly slept on, and the sermon came to an end.  There was another hymn and then the benediction.  The people dispersed slowly, and once more the big house was deserted.

Then Jot woke Old Tilly.  “I say,” he cried, “I say, old fellow, wake up!”

“Yes, I’m coming in a minute!” muttered Old Tilly.

“You’ll be late for church,” remarked Kent dryly, with a wink at Jot.

Old Tilly stirred and rose on his elbow.  Then he gave a bewildered look around him.