Geordies Tryst | Page 3

Miss Hume would feel gratified by the stillness of posture
and the earnest gaze in her nephew's eyes. They were certainly not

fixed directly on the preacher, but surely the boy must be listening, or
he would never be so quiet. Grace, however, was in the secret, and
knew better. Walter had confided to her that he had got such "a jolly
make-believe" to think about in church. The great chandelier which
hung from the centre of the church ceiling, with its poles, and chains,
and brackets, was transformed in his imagination to a ship's mast and
rigging, where he climbed and swung, and performed marvellous feats,
also in imagination, be it understood. And so it happened that Grace
could guess where her brother's thoughts were when he sat gazing
dreamily at the huge gilded chandelier of the city church.
Other imaginings had sometimes grown round it for Grace when it was
all lit up in the short winter days at afternoon service, and queer lights
and shadows fell on the gilded cherubs that decorated it, till their wings
seemed to move and hover over the heads of the congregation. To
Grace's childish mind they had been the embodiment of angels ever
since she could remember; and even long after childish things were put
away there remained a strange link between her conception of angelic
beings and those burnished cherubs whose serene, shining faces looked
down benignantly over the drowsy congregation on dark winter
afternoons.
But all these imaginings certainly came under the catalogue of
"wandering thoughts," from which the old minister always prayed at
the opening of the service that they might be delivered. So it is to be
feared that the sermon had not even the chance of the wayside seed in
the parable of sinking into the children's hearts. The words of her aunt's
old minister had as yet proved little more than an outside sound to
Grace, though she was in the habit of listening more observantly than
her brother. But there came a day when, amidst those familiar
surroundings, with the molten cherubs looking serenely down on her,
she heard words which made her heart burn within her, and kindled a
flame which lasted as long as life.
It was on a Sunday afternoon in November, not long after Walter left.
Miss Hume was ailing, and unable to go to church, so it was arranged
that Margery should accompany Grace. The old nurse attended the

same church, and Grace had been in the habit of going under her wing
when her aunt was obliged to remain at home. The walk to church
through the crowded streets was a pleasant change, and Grace was in
high spirits when she ensconced herself at the top of Margery's
seat--which was a much better observatory than her aunt's pew--where
every thing could be seen that was interesting and amusing within the
four walls. Besides, there were small amenities connected with a seat in
nurse's pew which had great attractions for Grace when she was a little
girl, and had still a lingering charm for her. In the pew behind there sat
a worthy couple, friends of Margery, who exchanged friendly
salutations with her on Sunday, always including a kindly nod of
recognition to her charges if they happened to be with her. Then, at a
certain juncture in the service, the worthy tinsmith, for that was his
calling, would hand across the book-board his ancient silver snuff-box,
of the contents of which he himself partook freely and noisily. Of
course, Margery only used it politely, after the manner of a scent-bottle;
and then Grace came in for her turn of it, with a warning glance from
nurse to beware of staining her hat-strings, or any other serious effects
from the odorous powder. If Walter happened to be invited to enjoy the
privilege, he always contrived to secrete a deposit of the snuff between
his finger and thumb, being most anxious to imitate the tinsmith's
accomplishment. He was, however, afraid to make his first essay in
church, in case of sneezing symptoms, and before he had a chance of a
quiet moment to make the experiment when they left the pew, he used
generally to be caught by Margery, and summoned to put on his glove
like a gentleman, and any resistance was sure to end in the discovery
and loss of the precious pinch of snuff. Then the tinsmith's wife had
also her own congenial resources for comfort during service, which she
delighted to share with her neighbours. Grace used to receive a little tap
on the shoulder, and, on looking round, a box of peppermint lozenges
lay waiting her in the old woman's fat palm. These were very homely
little interchanges of friendship, but they made part of the happy