The holy hours of the Sabbath afternoon waned.  Mr. Brower exhausted the stock column, read the record of deaths by way of doing a little religious reading, tried a line or two of a religious poem and found it too much for him, then rolled up a shawl for a sofa-pillow, put the paper over his head to shield him from the October flies, and went to sleep.  Jennie went in and out setting the table, went to the cellar for bread and cake and cream, went to the closet up-stairs for a glass of jelly, went the entire round of weary steps necessary to the getting ready the Sunday feast, all the time with the flush on her cheek and the fire in her eye that told of a turbulent, eager, disappointed heart, and not once during the time did she think of the solemn words of prayer or hymn or sermon, or even benediction, of the morning.  She had gotten her text in the church aisle.  It was, “Wherewithal shall I be clothed, in order to sit down at the marriage-supper of Mrs. Jamison’s son and daughter?” And vigorously was it tormenting her.  What an infinitely compassionate God is ours who made it impossible for Dr. Selmser, as he sat alone in his study that afternoon, to know what was transpiring in the hearts and homes of some of his people!

Those chickens sputtered themselves done at last, and the hot and tired mother, with still the anxious look on her face, stooped and took them from their fiery bed, and the father awoke with a yawn to hear himself summoned to the feast.  It was later than usual; many things had detained them; four o’clock quite, and before the army of dishes could be marshaled back into shape, the bell would certainly toll for evening service.  “Let the fear of the Lord be upon you.”  And He said, “Remember the Sabbath day, to keep it holy.”

Dwight Brower was summoned, too, from his room; and his mother, who had just realized the strangeness of his absence, looked up as he came in, and said: 

“Are you sick to-day, Dwight?”

“No, ma’am,” he answered.

And something in his voice made her look again; and something in his face made her keep looking, with a perplexed, half-awed air.  What had happened to Dwight?  What change had come to him amid the afternoon hours of that Sabbath day?  Very different experiences can be passing in the same house at the same time.

It was only across the street from the Browers’ that little Mrs. Matthews poured coffee for herself and husband, while Mollie, the cook, stood on the side-piazza and sang in a loud, shrill, and yet appreciative tone, “There is rest for the weary.”  Little Mrs. Matthews had glowing cheeks, though she had done nothing more serious than exchange her silken dress for a wrapper, and lie on the sofa and finish the closing chapters of George Eliot’s last new novel, since her return from church.  Aye, it is true.  She had been a listener in the same sanctuary where the earnest charge had rung, “Take heed what ye do; let the fear of the Lord be upon you.”  At least Mrs. Matthews had taken her handsomely clothed little body to church; I will not say that her mind was there, or that she had heard much of the sermon.  Some of it, however, she undoubtedly had heard, and she proved it at this point, breaking in upon Dr. Matthews’ musings as he stirred his second cup of coffee: