I would rather go up to heaven by myself than be pushed by cherubs; and if I got there I should like my friends to lean out of it, just as they do here."
"You will never go up," said his father. "You and I, dear boy, will lie at peace in the earth that bore us, and our names will disappear as surely as our work survives."
"Some of the people can only see the empty grave, not the saint, whoever he is, going up. It did happen like that, if it happened at all."
"Pardon me," said a frigid voice. "The chapel is somewhat small for two parties. We will incommode you no longer."
The lecturer was a clergyman, and his audience must be also his flock, for they held prayer-books as well as guide-books in their hands. They filed out of the chapel in silence. Amongst them were the two little old ladies of the Pension Bertolini—Miss Teresa and Miss Catherine Alan.
"Stop!" cried Mr. Emerson. "There's plenty of room for us all. Stop!"
The procession disappeared without a word. Soon the lecturer could be heard in the next chapel, describing the life of St. Francis.
"George, I do believe that clergyman is the Brixton curate."
George went into the next chapel and returned, saying "Perhaps he is. I don't remember."
