But no
hint of this escaped him in the presence of the younger children,
whose air of severe morality, born of renewed attacks and final
triumph over the difficulties of the Sunday School lesson, he
considered it unwise to disturb.
Church service was not a painfully long or tedious affair. The little
wooden structure, erected for that purpose in Barrie, had the air of
trying to be in sweet accord with the outlying wilderness, from the
dark green drapery of ivy which charitably strove to hide its raw
newness. The town itself (for in a new country everything in excess of
a post-office is called a town) was wrapped in Sabbath stillness. The
little church was well filled, for a bright Sunday in a country
village draws the inhabitants from their homes as infallibly as bees
from their hives. Workers and drones they were all there, bowed
together under the sense of a common need, and of faith in a common
Helper, which alone makes men free and equal.
Like a light in a dark place gleamed the bright head of Rose Macleod
in the farthest corner of the family pew. A vagrant sunbeam, like a
golden arrow, pierced the gloom about her, but to the disappointment
of _one_ interested observer, it failed to reach the rich coils, so
nearly resembling it in colour.
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