But Fessendon's might have done better, one would say, than to stay at
home with them. Why didn't he go to church, and be somebody? _He_ would
not have been put into the niggers' pew. As for his clothes, which might
have been objected to by worldly people, who would have thought of them,
or of anything else but his immortal soul, in the house of God? Of
course, there were no respecters of persons there,--none to say to a
rich Frisbie, or an eloquent Gingerford, "Sit thou, here, in a good
place," and to a ragged Fessenden's, "Stand thou there."
But perhaps the less said on the subject the better. Pass over that
golden Sunday in the lad's life. Alas, when will he ever have such
another? For here it is Monday morning, and the house is to be torn
down.
There seems to be no mistake about it. Mr. Frisbie has come over early,
driven in his light open carriage by his man Stephen, to see that the
niggers are out. And yonder come the workmen, to commence the work of
demolition.
But the niggers are not out; not an article of furniture has been
removed.
"You see, Sir,"--Mr.
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