All through the long and fervid sermon grizzled old negroes in the forward benches ejaculated their approval. “_Now_, yo’ say hit!”--“Das de Gawd’s trufe!” One aged man in the quaint high hat of another day sat leaning far forward, his ear cupped in his hand, and at a point which pleased him he would give vent to a strange, wild cry, beginning on a high, shrill note and ending on a bark--“_Eeeeeee-OW!_” A witch-like woman, bent almost double, chanted a psalm like a low dirge. “Yo’ all come hyar to hyar ’bout Heaben,” boomed the shepherd, “but I des’ pintly don’ b’leeve yo’ raidy fo’ dat talk! Yo’ hone fo’ to hyar ’bout de Golden Streets, when de _Po_lice gotter lead yo’ froo de streets ob dis town. Yo’ crave to hyar ’bout de shinin’ robes ob white, an’ yo’ gwine pawn yo’ raggety coat fo’ er swig ob gin!” “_Eeeeee-OW!_” barked the patriarch in the high hat. “_We-is-kill’-fo-dy-sake-all-de-day-long_,” wailed the old woman. “Yo’ honin’ to hyar me speechify ’bout de Pearly Gates, an’ yo’ kaint negotiate froo yo’ _own_ gate at night! We was shapen in iniquity an’ bawned in sin! Dere’s no cullud man is puffick! Dere’s no _white man_ is puffick!” Several of the forward sitters screwed round in their seats to regard Peter Parker with chastened triumph, and the Reverend Romeo announced the collection. In order to praise the liberal and shame the stingy, the names of contributors and their contributions would be read aloud. The choir sang meltingly above the noise of shuffling feet and clinking coins, and the ancient crone announced that she wished to stand on the sea of glass, harping on the harps of God. The clerks stood forward and read the result of the harvest.--“An’ _tain dolluh_ from de white gennelmun!” There was a rustle of gratification, and then an aggrieved rumble from the rear, and a hasty addition. “An’ B’rer Napoleon Butler, tain cents!” There was a vehement hymn to conclude. “_Wash me_,” _the_ dusky congregation sang, “_and I shall be whiter than snow!_” Ah, that was like them, the visitor considered. Not snow-white, after a life of ebony, but _whiter_ than snow! (Thus young Mr. Peter Parker of Pasadena, unaware that the exuberance of language was the Psalmist’s and not their own.) Taking a cordial farewell of Miss Jennings at the Bella Vista, he thanked her warmly for the big little idea she had given him. He would take pains to observe the young woman. “Yeah--you never noticed her till I called your attention to her, did you, old dear?” she derided him. “So’s your old man! Well, go to it, Peter Piper! Snappy days!” CHAPTER XV _Mrs. Eugenia Parker receives that lowest form of human expression, an anonymous letter, and pays the doctor’s daughter a call._ MRS. EUGENIA PARKER arrived at the Bella Vista with that lowest form of human expression, an anonymous letter, in her neat pigskin portfolio.