On the arrival of Mr. Armstrong with his companions, they found the room only partly occupied, nor had the exercises commenced.  According to a custom which would have struck a stranger as singular, but which, doubtless, was founded in a knowledge of the nature of young men and young women, the males were seated on one side of the passage, and the females on the other.  The separation, as might be expected, only partly answered the purpose, being unable to arrest the glances which, with quite as much of earth as of heaven in them, crossed the intervening space.  These, however, were stolen, and managed in such a quiet way as not materially to affect the devotions of the elders.  In compliance with an usage, a breach of which would have violated propriety, Faith, withdrawing her arm from her father’s, glided into a seat among her own sex on the right, while Mr. Armstrong and Holden sought places on the left.

The appearance of the Solitary entering the little place of worship, striding up the passage with his usual air of dignity and composure, and taking a seat among the principal members of the church, occasioned great surprise.  Although differing little, probably, in religious sentiments (except in one point) from those around him, he had never united with them in religious worship.  He was, therefore, notwithstanding his frequent allusions to the Scriptures, considered generally more in the light of a heathen than of a Christian man, and the apparition of Plato or Socrates would hardly have excited more observation.  Many, in consequence, were the looks bent on him by those present, and those who afterwards came in.

But of them, or of any sensation caused by his presence, he seemed utterly unconscious.  With arms folded and head drooped upon his chest, he shut his eyes and abandoned himself to meditation.

“Massy on us,” whispered Miss Green, the mantua-maker, to her next neighbor, Miss Thompson, the tailoress, “if here ain’t old Holden.  I wonder what fetches him here.”

“And did you see!” said Miss Thompson, whispering in like manner, “he came in with the Armstrongs.  I always did admire what they could see in him to like.”

“I guess,” said Miss Green, “he feels kind o’ awkward.  Look how he’s folded his arms.  It’s so long since he’s been to meeting or conference, if he was ever in such a place before; he don’t know how to behave.”

“There’s no sort o’ set about his clothes,” observed Miss Thompson.  “They look as if he made them himself.”

“Perhaps he did, but they’re good enough to go with Faith Armstrong’s cloak” (which had been made by a rival artiste), responded Miss Green.  “What dark colors she wears, no variety, and how dreadful old they make her look!”

“Hush!” said Miss Thompson, “the deacon’s going to open.”