When we got to the church Sunday-school had already begun. There was
Lovell Barlow looking preternaturally stiff in his best clothes, sitting
with a class of young men. He saw us when we came in, and gave me a look
of deep meaning. It was the same expression--as though there was some
solemn, mutual understanding between us--which he had worn on that night
when he gave me his picture.

"There's plenty of young folks' classes," said Grandma; "but seein' as
we're late maybe you'd jest as soon go right along in with us."

I said that I should like that best, so I went into the "old folks'"
class with Grandma and Grandpa Keeler.

There were three pews of old people in front of us, and the teacher, who
certainly seemed to me the oldest person I had ever seen, sat in an
otherwise vacant pew in front of all, so that, his voice being very thin
and querulous, we could hear very little that he said, although we were
edified in some faint sense by his pious manner of shaking his head and
rolling his eyes toward the ceiling.

The church was a square wooden edifice, of medium size, and contained
three stoves all burning brightly. Against this, and the drowsy effect
of their long drive in the sun and wind, my two companions proved
powerless to struggle.

Grandpa looked furtively up at Grandma, then endeavored to put on as a
sort of apology for what he felt was inevitably coming, a sanctimonious
expression which was most unnatural to him, and which soon faded away as
the sweet unconsciousness of slumber overspread his features. His head