I sometimes fancy that the old woman is the happier of the two . After these , others drop in singly and by twos and threes , either disappearing through the doorway or taking their stand in its vicinity . At last , and always with an unexpected sensation , the bell turns in the steeple overhead and throws out an irregular clangor , jarring the tower to its foundation . As if there were magic in the sound , the sidewalks of the street , both up and down along , are immediately thronged with two long lines of people , all converging hitherward and streaming into the church . Perhaps the far-off roar of a coach draws nearer -- a deeper thunder by its contrast with the surrounding stillness -- until it sets down the wealthy worshippers at the portal among their humblest brethren . Beyond that entrance -- in theory , at least -- there are no distinctions of earthly rank ; nor , indeed , by the goodly apparel which is flaunting in the sun would there seem to be such on the hither side . Those pretty girls ! Why will they disturb my pious meditations ? Of all days in the week , they should strive to look least fascinating on the Sabbath , instead of heightening their mortal loveliness , as if to rival the blessed angels and keep our thoughts from heaven . Were I the minister himself , I must needs look . One girl is white muslin from the waist upward and black silk downward to her slippers ; a second blushes from top-knot to shoe-tie , one universal scarlet ; another shines of a pervading yellow , as if she had made a garment of the sunshine . The greater part , however , have adopted a milder cheerfulness of hue . Their veils , especially when the wind raises them , give a lightness to the general effect and make them appear like airy phantoms as they flit up the steps and vanish into the sombre doorway . Nearly all -- though it is very strange that I should know it -- wear white stockings , white as snow , and neat slippers laced crosswise with black ribbon pretty high above the ankles . A white stocking is infinitely more effective than a black one . Here comes the clergyman , slow and solemn , in severe simplicity , needing no black silk gown to denote his office . His aspect claims my reverence , but can not win my love . Were I to picture Saint Peter keeping fast the gate of Heaven and frowning , more stern than pitiful , on the wretched applicants , that face should be my study . By middle age , or sooner , the creed has generally wrought upon the heart or been attempered by it . As the minister passes into the church the bell holds its iron tongue and all the low murmur of the congregation dies away .
The gray sexton looks up and down the street and then XXXXX my window-curtain , where through the small peephole I half fancy that he has caught my eye .
Beyond among at by in nearer of on that until