They turned into Chambers Street, in which was the little church where Dr. Channing was to preach.  Lawrence Newt led the way up the aisle to his pew.  The congregation, which was usually rather small, to-day quite filled the church.  There was a general air of intelligence and shrewdness in the faces, which were chiefly of the New England type.  Amy Waring saw no one she had ever seen before.  In fact, there were but few present in whose veins New England blood did not run, except some curious hearers who had come from a natural desire to see and hear a celebrated man.

When our friends entered the church a slow, solemn voluntary was playing upon the organ.  The congregation sat quietly in the pews.  Chairs and benches were brought to accommodate the increasing throng.  Presently the house was full.  The bustle and distraction of entering were over—­there was nothing heard but the organ.

In a few moments a slight man, wrapped in a black silk gown, slowly ascended the pulpit stairs, and, before seating himself, stood for a moment looking down at the congregation.  His face was small, and thin, and pale; but there was a pure light, an earnest, spiritual sweetness in the eyes—­the irradiation of an anxious soul—­as they surveyed the people.  After a few moments the music stopped.  There was perfect silence in the crowded church.  Then, moving like a shadow to the desk, the preacher, in a voice that was in singular harmony with the expression of his face, began to read a hymn.  His voice had a remarkable cadence, rising and falling with yearning tenderness and sober pathos.  It seemed to impart every feeling, every thought, every aspiration of the hymn.  It was full of reverence, gratitude, longing, and resignation: 

“While Thee I seek, protecting Power,
  Be my vain wishes stilled;
And may this consecrated hour
  With better hopes be filled.”

When he had read it and sat down again, Hope Wayne felt as if a religious service had already been performed.

The simplicity, and fervor, and long-drawn melody with which he had read the hymn apparently inspired the choir with sympathy, and after a few notes from the organ they began to sing an old familiar tune.  It was taken up by the congregation until the church trembled with the sound, and the saunterers in the street outside involuntarily ceased laughing and talking, and, touched by some indefinable association, raised their hats and stood bareheaded in the sunlight, while the solemn music filled the air.

The hymn was sung, the prayer was offered, the chapter was read; then, after a little silence, that calm, refined, anxious, pale, yearning face appeared again at the desk.  The preacher balanced himself for a few moments alternately upon each foot—­moved his tongue, as if tasting the words he was about to utter—­and announced his text:  “Peace I leave with you:  my peace I give unto you.”