Alice Johnson

Anna was not with the party which at the usual hour entered the family
carriage with Bibles and prayer books in hand. She seldom went out
except on warm, pleasant days; but she stood in the deep bay window
watching the carriage as it wound down the hill, thinking first how
pleasant and homelike the Sabbath bells must sound to Charlie this day,
and secondly, how handsome and stylish her young brother looked with his
Parisian cloak and cap, which he wore so gracefully. Others than Anna
thought so, too; and at the church door there was quite a little stir,
as he gallantly handed out first his mother and then his sisters, and
followed them into the church.

Dr. Richards had never enjoyed a reputation for being very devotional,
and the interval between his entrance and the commencement of the
service was passed by him in a rather scornful survey of the time-worn
house. With a sneer in his heart, he mentally compared the old-fashioned
pulpit, with its steep flight of steps and faded trimmings, with the
lofty cathedral he had been in the habit of attending in Paris, and a
feeling of disgust and contempt was creeping over him, when a soft
rustling of silk, and a consciousness of a delicate perfume, which he at
once recognized as aristocratic, warned him that somebody was coming;
somebody entirely different from the score of females who had
distributed themselves within range of his vision, their countrified
bonnets, as he termed them, trimmed outside and in without the least
regard to taste, or combination of color. But the little lady, moving so
quietly up the aisle--she was different. She was worthy of respect, and
the Paris beau felt an inclination to rise at once and acknowledge her
superior presence.