"
But a new surprise awaited us. The driver stopped opposite a large,
plain-looking building, and told us that we had better step in. On
entering, we involuntarily started back, for I never saw a house more
densely filled; and all were blacks. It was a sable cloud; but the sun
was in it. The choir were singing a select piece. The principal
_soprano_, an elegant-looking black girl, dressed in perfect taste, held
her book from her in her very small hand covered with a straw-colored
glove. The singing was charming. We asked a white-headed negro in the
vestibule what was going on.
"Why, it is Easter Monday, Missis."
"Is this an Episcopal church?"
"No; Baptist."
"What are all these people here for?" said your Uncle.
"Why, to worship, Sir, I hope. It's holiday."
"Do they go to church, holidays?"
"Why," said he, with a smile and bow, "some of the best of 'em, p'raps."
We returned to the carriage.
"Think," said your uncle, "of two thousand people at the North spending
a part of 'Artillery Election Day' in Boston, for example, in going to
church!"
"Well," said Hattie, "if I were not to live another day, I would bless
God for having let me live to see these things.
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