ue above it
in long, level strata, and there was perceptible in the air a faint
smell of burning weeds. The belfry story of the centre tower glowed
with a pink flush in the sunset, and a cloud of jackdaws wheeled round
the golden vanes, chattering and fluttering before they went to bed.

"It is a striking scene, is it not?" said a voice at his elbow; "there
is a curious aromatic scent in this autumn air that makes one catch
one's breath." It was the organist who had slipped in unawares. "I
feel down on my luck," he said. "Take your supper in my room to-night,
and let us have a talk."

Westray had not seen much of him for the last few days, and agreed
gladly enough that they should spend the evening together; only the
venue was changed, and supper taken in the architect's room. They
talked over many things that night, and Westray let his companion ramble
on to his heart's content about Cullerne men and manners; for he was of
a receptive mind, and anxious to learn what he could about those among
whom he had taken up his abode.

He told Mr Sharnall of his conversation with Miss Joliffe, and of the
unsuccessful attempt to get the picture removed. The organist knew all
about Baunton and Lutterworth's letter.

"The poor thing has made the question a matter of conscience for the
last fortnight," he said, "and worried herself into many a sleepless
night over that picture. `Shall I sell it, or shall I not?' `Yes,'
says poverty--`sell it, and show a brave front to your creditors.'
`Yes,' say Martin's debts, clamouring about her with open mouths, like a
nest of young starlings, `sell it, and satisfy us.' `No,' says pride,
`don't sell it; it is a patent of respectability to have an oil-painting
in the house.' `No,' says family affection, and the queer little piping
voice of her own childhood--`don't sell it. Don't you remember how fond
poor daddy was of it, and how dear Martin treasured it?' `Dear
Martin'--psh! Martin never did her anything but evil turns all his
threescore years, but women canonise their own folk when they die.
Haven't you seen what they call a religious woman damn the whole world
for evil-doers? and then her husband or her brother dies, and may have
lived as ill a life as any other upon earth, but she don't damn him.
Love bids her penal code halt; she makes a way of escape for her own,
and speaks of dear Dick and dear Tom for all the world as if they had
been double Baxter-saints. No, blood is t