'
By degrees they grew more at their ease, and chatted freely with me.
Marjorie told me that her father had sent the paper. Father was going to
preach on Sunday; he preached every Sunday, and numbers of people came,
and Jack was in the choir.
What a dear little chorister, to be sure, a chubby little cherub if ever
there was one!
'Shall you come, big Jack?' he said, patting my hand with his strong,
sturdy little fist.
'I don't know,' I said; 'if it's a fine day, perhaps I shall want to get
on with my picture.'
'On Sunday?' said the child in a shocked voice; 'it's on Sunday father
preaches, and you couldn't paint on Sunday, could you?'
'Well, I'll see,' I said; 'perhaps I'll come and hear you sing, little
Jack.'
'Thank you, big Jack,' he said, with a merry twinkle in his pretty blue
eyes.
'What is this preaching on the shore, Duncan?' I asked.
'Oh, it's our lay preacher,' he said; 'he's a good man, and has done a
sight of good in this place. You see, it's too far for folks here to go
to church, and so he lives amongst us, and has meetings in the hall
yonder in winter, and in summer, why, we have 'em on the shore, and the
visitors comes mostly.
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