e
family pew.

In a corner of it the children are comfortably stowed away, while all
the others following suit, fall into their proper places. They are only
barely in time. The organ plays them up the aisle, and they have only
just a second to scramble through the preliminary prayers (so distinct a
token of respectability), when the rector's voice breaks forth.

Portia, who has not been to church before, looks up at Mr. Grainger,
while he is confessing everybody in a tone severe but bilious, and tells
herself he is as like a superannuated old crow as ever he can be. He is
flanked by the curate, a mediaeval young man, with a pallid countenance
and an irreproachable gown, cut in the latest fashion, who stands in an
attitude of the most approved, with his eyes fixed immovably upon a side
pillar. The fixity of his gaze is so intense as to suggest the idea that
he never again means to remove it until death claims him for his own.

Then a hymn is sung by the village choir, led by the organist's high
soprano. It is a hymn very unique in its way, and sung with much
fervor, if little tune, and pierces even to the brains of its hearers.
The organ beats a solemn accompaniment to this delicacy, and whether the
strains from the ancient instrument--that squeaks like a dilapidated
bagpipes--is too much for the curate, I know not; but, at the last
verse, he removes his eyes from the pillar of the church and
concentrates them upon Portia.

Portia, at this particular moment, I regret to say, is smiling broadly.
A brilliant smile that illuminates her whole face, rendering her as
lovely as a dream. She is plainly deriving great consolation from the
village choir?

The curate, smitten by the sight of her levity, or by the consciousness
of his own lapse from the path of duty, in so far letting his mind
wander to mundane matters, turns pale, and, lowering his eyes until they
reach the tesselated pavement at his feet, grows sad and thoughtful, and
perhaps decides on eating no meat again to-day as punishment for his
fault.

The church is old, quaint, curious. It is like a thing forgotten. It
looks as if it had been dug up by somebody and planted just here, no one
knows why. The windows are narrow and elongated, and admit but little
light. The pillars in the more distant corners are wrapt in gloom. A
cobweb falling from the roof, spun by some enterprising spider, hangs
over the gaunt pulpit, as though desirous of coming in contact with
w