thuck path this sunny day, ’stead of driving.”

“Marnin’, shepherd,” said the clerk to a labouring man who had just entered the churchyard. “I was afeared you’d be late. ’Spose you come from Upper Furlong. How’s your voice?”

“Aw, featish (fairish). I zucked a thrush’s egg to clear un.”

“Arl right, Jabez; mind as you doan’t zeng too fast. It be your fault, shepherd, it be your fault.”

For Jabez was the leader of the choir. “Nash!” cried a stern voice, and the clerk jumped and tore his hat off at the sound. “Catch those boys!”

It was Squire Thorpe, whose magisterial eye had at once detected the youthful gamblers behind the buttress. Nash rushed towards them; but they had scented the Squire’s arrival, and dodged him round the big tombstones. Thorpe turned to the two farmers, who lifted their hats.

“Grass coming on nicely, Hedges,” said he. “Ought to be a good hay year.”

The Squire was as fond of gossip as any man in the parish; but he was rather late that morning; for he had hardly taken his stand by the wall when the “dill-dill” of the bell came to a sudden stop. The two gentlemen who had gone out into the field returned at a run.

“Ah, here you are!” said the Squire; and the three walked rapidly to the chancel door.

Ruck and Hedges, however, showed no signs of moving. A low hum arose from the hand-organ within; still they leant on the wall, deferring action to the last moment.

The sound of voices—the speakers clearly almost out of breath, but none the less talking—approached the wicket-gate, and three bonnets appeared above the wall there.

“It be the Greene Ferne folk,” said Hedges. “Measter Newton and t’other chap was too much in a hurry.”

Three ladies—two young and one middle-aged—entered the churchyard. The taller of the two girls left the path, and ran to a tomb inclosed with low iron railings. She carried a whole armful of spring flowers, gathered in the meadows and copses en route, bluebells and cowslips chiefly, and threw them broadcast on the grave.

“Miss Margaret don’t forget her feyther,” said Hedges.

The three, as they passed, nodded smilingly to the two farmers, and went into the church.

“May Fisher be allus down at the Estcourts”, said Ruck. “S’pose her finds it dull up on the hills with the old man.”

“Mrs Estcourt looks well,” said Hedges. “Warn hur’ll marry agen some day. Miss Margaret do dress a bit, you.”

“Nation gay. Hur be a upstanding girl, that Margaret Estcourt. A’ got a thousand pound under the will.”

“And the Greene Ferne Farm when the widder goes.”

“Five hundred acres freehold, and them housen in to town.”

“A’ be a featish-looking girl, you.”

“So be May Fisher; but a’ bean’t such a queen as Mother. Margaret walks as if the parish belonged to her.”

“If a’ did, her would sell un, and buy a new bonnet. These yer wimmen!”

The sound of singing came from the open door under the tower hard by.

“Dall’d if it bean’t ‘I will arise.’”

“S’pose us had better go in.” They walked to the tower-door. It was arched and low—so low that to enter it was necessary to stoop, and inside the pavement was a step beneath the level of the ground. Within stood the font, and by it some forms against the wall, on which the school children left their caps. There was a space behind the first pillar of the side-aisle unoccupied by pews, being dark and not affording a view of the pulpit. Now it was possible to tell the rank of the congregation as they entered, by the length of time each kept his hat on after getting through the door. The shepherd or carter took off his hat the moment he set his hobnailed boot down on the stone flags with a clatter. The wheelwright, who had a little money and a house of his own, wore his hat till he got to the font. So did the ale-house keeper, who had the grace to come to church. So did the small farmers. Ruck, who could write a cheque for a thousand pounds, never removed his till he arrived at the step that led down to the side-aisle. Hedges, who was higher in the rank of society, inasmuch as he had been born in the purple of farming, kept his on till he reached the first pillar. One of the semi-gentlemen-farmers actually walked half-way to his pew-door wearing his hat, though the congregation were standing listening to Jabez and the choir get through the introductory chant.

Entering from the beautiful sunshine, the church gave the impression of a rather superior tomb. It struck chilly, as if the cold of the last five or six centuries had got into it and could not be driven out. Cold rose up from the tombs under the aisles—cold emanated from the walls, where slabs spoke of the dead—cold came down from the very roof. Whitewashed walls, whitewashed pillars—everything plain, bare, hard. The only colour to be seen was furnished by two small stained-glass windows, and the faded gilt and paint of the royal arms over the chancel; the lion and the unicorn in the middle, and the names of the churchwardens who reigned when it was put up on either side. The pews in the centre were modern; those in the side-aisles high, like boxes. There might, perhaps, have been forty people in the church altogether—all crowded up towards the chancel: the back seats were quite empty. If a modest stranger went into such a back seat, and helped himself to the Prayer-book he might find there, the covers came off in his hand, and displayed a mass of sawdust-like borings thrown up by the grubs that had eaten their way right through the prayer for King William IV. A cheerless edifice—tomb-like; and yet there were some to whom it had grown very dear in the passage of years, and others to whom it was equally dear because of associations. So it was that this chilly, harsh, repellent place—squat rather than built on the edge of the hills—was beloved far more by some of the worshippers therein than those grand vaulted cathedrals whose vastness seems to remove them from human sympathy. But how marked the contrast between the sunshine, the blue sky, the song of birds, the soft warm air, the green leaf and bud without!

Squire Thorpe’s pew of black oak occupied one entire side of the chancel; the choir and the barrel-organ were together, far down the side-aisle. From the raised dais of the chancel every member of the congregation could be discerned with ease. While the Rev. Basil Thorpe, cousin of the Squire, “droned in the pulpit,” or rather reading-desk, the Squire, sitting, kneeling, or standing, surveyed with keen glance every nook and corner. This severe and continuous examination did not in the least interfere with his devotions. Such is the dual character of the mind, that he uttered the responses earnestly in his sonorous tones, and at the same moment noted the two wenches giggling with the plough-boy behind the pillar. His imagination followed the lesson and saw the patriarchal life on the plains of Chaldea, while his physical eye watched the grey-haired “fore-father” in his blue smock-frock, who, leaning his chin upon his ashen staff, traced the words with his horny finger on the book. The school children sat on forms placed endwise down the centre aisle. He saw one near the top stealthily produce an apple, and after taking a bite hand it to the next. All down the row it went, each nibbling in turn, and the final receiver putting the core in his pocket. Such innocent tricks did not annoy him in the