CHAPTER IV.
In a region so sparsely settled as that in which the scene of this story is laid, churches are generally few and far between, and the spiritual needs of humanity are entirely subservient to their physical wants, both being more or less in abeyance to the all-absorbing consideration of the care of the animal creation, whose well-being or the reverse makes all the difference between success and failure.
Dr. Gray, who was a good churchman, had long ago had himself appointed lay-reader for this section, and was very scrupulous in the discharge of his duties. There was a school-house in the neighborhood, that was opened for only about two months out of the twelve; but all the year round the attendance of the public was invited there on Sundays, and generally there was a fair congregation. To the regular church service there was always added a sermon, selected from some favorite author of the doctor's, which was far ahead of anything any resident clergyman they could have had would have given them. The service and sermon were followed by a short Sunday-school session for the children, during which the parents chatted in groups outside or remained to be edified within, as they chose. With the exception of Dr. Gray and Stella and the boys, the congregation, both big and little, consisted entirely of a class known farther west as cow-boys, and a few small farmers and their families. It was understood that in the course of time the bishop was to make them a visitation, but, as this contingency continued to appear rather remote, it required a great effort, as well as a consistent example, on the part of Dr. Gray, to keep his recruits together. He proved equal to the demand, and was so conscientious in the discharge of his duties, and so ably seconded by Stella, who might be said almost to compose the choir, that the attendance of the congregation had been a rather more steady thing than is commonly the case in such undertakings.
It was an exquisite Sunday morning, and the blessed Sunday calm that, in crowded cities, shows itself by the silence of the mighty voice of trade, and a certain freshness of attire and relaxing of expression in the people that pass to and fro along the streets, was manifested in this isolated region in a brooding stillness over the face of nature, hardly less significant. The cows with faces at all times as solemn as if every day were Sunday, seemed for the most part to prefer, on this day, even to the luxuriant feast spread out by acres before them, the more meditative form of dining known as chewing the cud, and one could even fancy that they had an air of conscious decorum in the fact of not grazing. The vast, far-reaching plains seemed to lie stiller than
