Mrs. Field put on her black bonnet and shawl, and started.  The bell tolled, and she passed down the village street with a stiff steadiness of gait.  She felt eager to go to meeting to-night.  This old New England woman, all of whose traditions were purely orthodox, was all unknowingly a fetich-worshipper in a time of trouble.  Ever since her daughter had been ill, she had had a terrified impulse in her meeting-going.  It seemed to her that if she stayed away, Lois might be worse.  Unconsciously her church attendance became a species of spell, or propitiation to a terrifying deity, and the wild instinct of the African awoke in the New England woman.

When she reached the church the bell had stopped ringing, and the vestry windows were parallelograms of yellow light; the meeting was in the vestry.

Mrs. Field entered, and took a seat well toward the front.  The room was half filled with people, and the mass of them were elderly and middle-aged women.  There were rows of their homely, faded, and strong-lined faces set in sober bonnets, a sprinkling of solemn old men, a few bright-ribboned girls, and in the background a settee or two of smart young fellows.  Right in front of Mrs. Field sat a pretty girl with roses in her hat.  She was about Lois’ age, and had been to school with her.

Mrs. Field, erect and gaunt, with a look of goodness so settled and pre-eminent in her face that it had almost the effect of a smile, sat and listened to the minister.  He was a young man with boyish shoulders, and a round face, which he screwed nervously as he talked.  He was vehement, and strung to wiriness with new enthusiasm; he seemed to toss the doctrines like footballs back and forth before the eyes of the people.

Mrs. Field listened intently, but all the time it was as if she were shut up in a corner with her own God and her own religion.  There are as many side chapels as there are individual sorrows in every church.

After the minister finished his discourse, the old men muttered prayers, with long pauses between.  Now and then a young woman played a gospel tune on a melodeon, and a woman in the same seat with Mrs. Field led the singing.  She was past middle age, but her voice was still sweet, although once in a while it quavered.  She had sung in the church choir ever since she was a child, and was the prima donna of the village.  The young girl with roses in her hat who sat in front of Mrs. Field also sang with fervor, although her voice was little more than a sweetly husky breath.  She kept her eyes, at once bold and timid, fixed upon the young minister as she sang.

When meeting was done, and Mrs. Field arose, the girl spoke to her.  She had a pretty blush on her round cheeks, and she smiled at Mrs. Field in the same way that she would soon smile at the young minister.

“How’s Lois to-night, Mrs. Field?” said she.

“She’s pretty well, thank you, Ida.”

“I heard she was sick.”