Sunday morning dawned gray and sullen, casting a mood of gloom over the household. We should have been happy to have the family back together. Instead we were muttering to ourselves, listless, unhappy and snappish with each other. The heat was unbearable and the air hung heavy upon us. I heard Cook say to Ana that it was storm weather.
We made our way to Mass on foot, for the chapel was only a short distance from our house. The congregation seemed oppressed by the weather. Even Father Moses was less energetic. His sermon should have been bold and fiery, instead it was damp and musty as a cellar.
Communion, always a time for celebration for me, was merely a duty to be performed. Father Moses ended Mass as quickly as he could without seeming to be unsightly, and we all went home as the first drops of rain began…
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