From mundane things to the spiritual!

“Yes, I feel for Mrs. Bennington,” continued Mrs. Haldene.  “We have to submit to our boys’ running around with actresses; but to marry them!”

“And married life, I understand, seldom agrees with them.  They invariably return to the stage.  I wonder if this woman has ever been married before?”

“I shouldn’t be surprised.  For my part, I’m very glad the ceremony will not be performed in the church.  Hush!” with a warning glance over her shoulder.

There was a sudden craning of necks, an agitation among the hats and bonnets.  Down the aisle came a handsome, dignified woman in widow’s weeds, a woman who was easily fifty-six, but who looked as if she had just crossed the threshold of the forties.  Her face was serene, the half-smile on her lips was gentle and sweet her warm brown eyes viewed the world peacefully.  Ah, how well she knew that to-day this temple of worship was but a den of jackals, ready to rend her if she so much as hesitated, so much as faltered in look or speech!  Never should they feed themselves upon her sorrow.  She went on, smiling here and there.  The low hum, the pallid lights, the murmur from the organ, all seemed cruelly accented.  Her pew was third from the chancel; she was but half-way through the gantlet of curious eyes.

Following her was a young girl of twenty.  She was youth in all its beauty and charm and fragrance.  Many a young masculine heart throbbed violently as she passed, and straightway determined to win fame and fortune, if for no other purpose than to cast them at her feet.  This was Patty Bennington.

The two reached their pew without mishap, and immediately rested their heads reverently upon the rail in prayer.  Presently the music ceased, the rector mounted the pulpit, and the day’s service began.  I doubt if many could tell you what the sermon was about that day.

No other place offers to the speculative eye of the philosopher so many varied phases of humanity as the church.  In the open, during the week-days, there is little pretense, one way or the other; but in church, on Sunday, everybody, or nearly everybody, seems to have donned a mask, a transparent mask, a smug mask, the mask of the known hypocrite.  The man who is a brute to his wife goes meekly to his seat; the miser, who has six days pinched his tenants or evicted them, passes the collection plate, his face benevolent; the woman whose tongue is that of the liar and the gossip, who has done her best to smirch the reputation of her nearest neighbor, lifts her eyes heavenward and follows every word of a sermon she can not comprehend; and the man or woman who has stepped aside actually believes that his or her presence in church hoodwinks every one.  Heigh-ho! and envy with her brooding yellow eyes and hypocrisy with her eternal smirk sit side by side in church.

Oh, there are some good and kindly people in this ragged world of ours, and they go to church with prayer in their hearts and goodness on their lips and forgiveness in their hands.  They wear no masks; their hearts and minds go in and out of church unchanged.  These are the salt of the earth, and do not often have their names in the Sunday papers, unless it is in the matter of their wills and codicils.  Then only do the worldly know that charity had walked among them and they knew her not.