the corner of the tower, just within the line of its shadow, looking downward with a darksome brow.  I sometimes fancy that the old woman is the happier of the two.  After these, others drop in singly and by twos and threes, either disappearing through the doorway or taking their stand in its vicinity.  At last, and always with an unexpected sensation, the bell turns in the steeple overhead and throws out an irregular clangor, jarring the tower to its foundation.  As if there were magic in the sound, the sidewalks of the street, both up and down along, are immediately thronged with two long lines of people, all converging hitherward and streaming into the church.  Perhaps the far-off roar of a coach draws nearer—­a deeper thunder by its contrast with the surrounding stillness—­until it sets down the wealthy worshippers at the portal among their humblest brethren.  Beyond that entrance—­in theory, at least—­there are no distinctions of earthly rank; nor, indeed, by the goodly apparel which is flaunting in the sun would there seem to be such on the hither side.  Those pretty girls!  Why will they disturb my pious meditations?  Of all days in the week, they should strive to look least fascinating on the Sabbath, instead of heightening their mortal loveliness, as if to rival the blessed angels and keep our thoughts from heaven.  Were I the minister himself, I must needs look.  One girl is white muslin from the waist upward and black silk downward to her slippers; a second blushes from top-knot to shoe-tie, one universal scarlet; another shines of a pervading yellow, as if she had made a garment of the sunshine.  The greater part, however, have adopted a milder cheerfulness of hue.  Their veils, especially when the wind raises them, give a lightness to the general effect and make them appear like airy phantoms as they flit up the steps and vanish into the sombre doorway.  Nearly all—­though it is very strange that I should know it—­wear white stockings, white as snow, and neat slippers laced crosswise with black ribbon pretty high above the ankles.  A white stocking is infinitely more effective than a black one.

Here comes the clergyman, slow and solemn, in severe simplicity, needing no black silk gown to denote his office.  His aspect claims my reverence, but cannot win my love.  Were I to picture Saint Peter keeping fast the gate of Heaven and frowning, more stern than pitiful, on the wretched applicants, that face should be my study.  By middle age, or sooner, the creed has generally wrought upon the heart or been attempered by it.  As the minister passes into the church the bell holds its iron tongue and all the low murmur of the congregation dies away.  The gray sexton looks up and down the street and then at my window-curtain, where through the small peephole I half fancy that he has caught my eye.  Now every loiterer has gone in and the street lies asleep in the quiet sun, while a feeling of loneliness comes over me, and brings also an uneasy sense of neglected privileges and duties.