s stained infrequently with the red
of a lifeless sunset and, as Michael watched the desolation of summer's
retreat, he listened sadly to the sibilant heather lisping against the
flutes of the pines, while from time to time the wind drummed against
the buttresses and boomed against the bulk of the church. Michael drew
near the west door whose hinges and nails stood out unnaturally distinct
in the last light of the sun. Abruptly on the blowy eve the church-bell
began to ring, and from various roads Michael saw people approaching,
their heads bent against the gale. At length he made up his mind to
follow one of the groups through the churchyard and presently, while the
gate rattled behind him in the wind, he reached the warm glooms within.
As he took his seat and perceived the altar loaded with flowers,
dazzling with lighted candles, he wondered why this should be so on a
Monday night in August. The air was pungent with the smell of wax and
the stale perfume of incense on stone. The congregation was scattered
about in small groups and units, and the vaulted silence was continually
broken by coughs and sighs and hollow footsteps. From the tower the bell
rang in slow monotone, while the wind whistled and moaned and flapped
and boomed as if, thought Michael, all the devils in hell were trying to
break into the holy building. The windows were now scarcely luminous
with the wan shadow of daylight and would indeed have been opaque as
coal had the inside of the church been better lighted. But the few
wavering gas-jets in the nave made all seem dark save where the chancel,
empty and candle-lit, shone and sparkled in a radiancy. Something in
Michael's attitude must have made a young man sitting behind lean over
and ask if he wanted a Prayer Book. Michael turned quickly to see a lean
and eager face.

"Yes, please. I left mine at home," he answered.

"Well, come and sit by me," said the young man.

Michael changed his place and the young man talked in a low whisper,
while the bell rang its monotone upon the gusts which swept howling
round the church.

"Solemn Evensong isn't until seven o'clock. It's our patronal festival,
St. Bartholomew's Day--you know. We had a good Mass this morning. Every
year we get more people. Do you live in Bournemouth?"

"No," whispered Michael. "I'm just here for the holidays."

"What a pity," said the stranger. "We do so want servers--you
know--decent-looking servers. Our boys are so clumsy. It's no