Missy, in her heart, preferred stained-
glass windows and their glorious reflections, as an asset to
religion; but at night services you were not apt to note that
deficiency.
She sat well up front with her grandparents, as befitted their
position as pillars of the church, and from this vantage had a good
view of the proceedings. She could see every one in the choir,
seated up there behind the organ on the side platform. Polly Currier
was in the choir; she wasn't a Methodist, but she had a flute-like
soprano voice, and the Methodists--whom all the town knew had "poor
singing"--had overstepped the boundaries of sectarianism for this
revival. Polly looked like an angel in pink lawn and rose-wreathed
leghorn hat; she couldn't know that Missy gazed upon her with secret
adoration as a creature of Romance--one who had been kissed! Missy
continued to gaze at Polly during the preliminary songs--tunes
rather disappointing, not so beautiful as Missy's own favourite
hymns--till the preacher appeared.
The Reverend Poole--"Brother" Poole as grandpa called him, though he
wasn't a relation--was a very tall, thin man with a blonde, rather
vacuous face; but at exhortation and prayer he "had the gift.
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