ew's unorthodox
interpretation of the Mosaic narrative. I could argue the matter no more
and fell back upon a last plan.

"Archdeacon," I said, "come out and dine with us to-night. Talk the
whole business over with my mother before you take any definite action."

The Archdeacon agreed to do this. I went home at once and prepared my
mother for the conflict.

"You must use all your influence," I said. "It is a most serious
business."

"My dear boy," said my mother, "it's quite the most ridiculous storm in
a tea cup of which I've ever heard."

"No," I said solemnly, "it's not. If the Archdeacon makes his charge
formally the Archbishop will be obliged to take it up. Miss Pettigrew
will be hauled up before him----"

"Miss Pettigrew," said my mother, "would simply laugh. She's not in the
very least the sort of woman----"

"I know. She's one of those people that you hate awfully and yet can't
help loving though you are rather afraid of her. It's for her sake more
than Lalage's that I'm asking you to interfere."

"If I interfere at all it will be for the Archdeacon's sake. It's a pity
to allow him to make a fool of himself."

I do not know what line my mother actually took with the Archdeacon.
I left them together after dinner and when the time came for saying
good-night I found that the Archdeacon had been persuaded not to attempt
a formal protest against Miss Pettigrew's teaching. He has never,
however, trusted her since then and he still shakes his head doubtfully
at the mention of her name.

I wrote to Lalage next day and told her not to send home any more
accounts of scripture lessons. English compositions, I said, we should
be glad to receive. Latin exercises would always be welcome, and algebra
sums, especially if worked in Miss Campbell's red ink, would be regarded
as treasured possessions.

"All letters," I added, "suspected of containing ecclesiastical news of
any kind will be returned to you unopened."

I also called on the Canon and spoke plainly to him about the danger and
folly of showing letters to the Archdeacon.

"I was wrong," said the Canon apologetically. "I can see now that I was
wrong, but I thought at the time that he'd enjoy the joke."

"You ought," said I severely, "to have had more sense. The Archdeacon
expects to be a bishop some day. He can't afford to enjoy jokes of that
kind. By the way, did he tell you who wrote the Litany?"

CHAPTER V

It must have been about three week