he had never fallen a prey to its fascinations. This
wine was very sweet. He liked sweet things. Once he had tasted
champagne when dining at the house of Lady Bray. He had thought that
disagreeable, though at the moment he had murmured that it was
excellent wine; but he had been unable to understand how any man could
take of that more than was good for him. This wine, of course, that
they used in the church was infinitely more palatable. But how could
he possibly drink all this? It was out of the question. He prayed
devoutly that Mr. Windle would soon find him relief and send some
one.

He took another sip and waited, noticing that already there were
slight signs of diminution in the contents of the chalice. Then he
thought of the bishop. It was possible that his lordship might notice
the scent of it in his breath if he took it all. They would be sure
to be talking together about his little alterations; and if the
bishop were to notice it, it would be disastrous. He looked at his
watch. It was already almost the time that they were supposed to sit
down to dinner. Oh! why did not Mr. Windle find some one and bring
him release from this torture of mind?

He walked to the cupboard where the bottle of wine was kept. Perhaps
it would be better to pour it back--really better in the end. They
would be waiting dinner for him. He knew that the bishop would be
annoyed. It might be better to pour it back.

Then all the force of dogma rose before him like a phoenix from the
ashes of his lower nature. This was consecrated wine! He had
consecrated it with his own hands at the altar of God, for one purpose
and one purpose only--to be consumed by those who believed in the
body and blood of Christ. To pour it back again into the bottle of
unconsecrated wine--that would be sacrilege! Why had Mr. Windle been
so narrow-minded about his foolish pledge of total abstinence? How
foolish some good people were! How bigoted! He felt assured that Mr.
Windle was a good man; but again, there was no doubt about his being
narrow-minded. Ah, why did he not send some one!

Mr. Bishop walked to the door of the vestry that opened on to the
little country lane. He looked out. There was no trace of the devout
warden. Only a man, carefully dressed, with black leather leggings
encasing his legs from knees to the boot-tops--seemingly the type
of clerk in a country town--was coming up the lane. A thought flew
into the clergyman's head. He beckoned to him.