AN EPISODE OF WEST WOODLANDS.


I.


The rain was dripping monotonously from the scant eaves of the little
church of the Sidon Brethren at West Woodlands. Hewn out of the very
heart of a thicket of buckeye spruce and alder, unsunned and unblown
upon by any wind, it was so green and unseasoned in its solitude that it
seemed a part of the arboreal growth, and on damp Sundays to have
taken root again and sprouted. There were moss and shining spots on the
underside of the unplaned rafters, little green pools of infusoria stood
on the ledge of the windows whose panes were at times suddenly clouded
by mysterious unknown breaths from without or within. It was oppressed
with an extravagance of leaves at all seasons, whether in summer, when
green and limp they crowded the porch, doorways, and shutters, or when
penetrating knot-holes and interstices of shingle and clapboard, on some
creeping vine, they unexpectedly burst and bourgeoned on the walls like
banners; or later, when they rotted in brown heaps in corners, outlined
the edges of the floor with a thin yellow border, or invaded the ranks
of the high-backed benches which served as pews.

There had been a continuous rustling at the porch and the shaking out
of waterproofs and closing of umbrellas until the half-filled church was
already redolent of damp dyes and the sulphur of India rubber. The eyes