fe."

"Rend your hearts and not your garments," so the Vicar adjured the
congregation in his agreeable monotone, and the service began.

Eloquent could see Mary's back between the heads of two maids: her hair
shone burnished and bright in the lamplight. Just before the psalms
she turned and whispered to her brother, and he caught a glimpse of her
profile for the space of three seconds.

When the psalms ended, the "knut" came out into the aisle, mounted the
steps leading to the lectern, and started to read the first lesson.

"Woe to thee that spoilest and thou wast not spoiled," Grantly Ffolliot
began in a voice of thunder. The congregation lifted startled heads,
and looked considerably surprised. Grantly was nervous. He read very
fast, and so loud that Mary was moved to cover her ears with her hands;
and Eloquent saw her and sympathised.

Now here was a matter in which he could give young Ffolliot points and
a beating. He longed passionately to stand up at that brass bird and
read the Bible to the people of Redmarley; to one person in particular.
He knew exactly the pitch of voice necessary to fill a building of that
size.

"He that walketh righteously and speaketh uprightly; he that despiseth
the gain of oppressions, that shaketh his hands from the holding of
bribes. . . ."

How curiously applicable certain of Isaiah's exhortations are to the
present day, thought Eloquent. . . . The "knut" had somewhat subdued
his voice, and even he could not spoil the music and the majesty of the
words, "a place of broad rivers and streams wherein shall go no galley
with oars, neither shall gallant ship pass thereby." Two more verses,
and the first lesson was ended, and Grantly Ffolliot, flushed but
supremely thankful, made his way back to his seat.

Eloquent registered a vow.

The vicar himself read the second lesson, and the meditations of the
assembled worshippers were undisturbed.

The vicar always preached for exactly ten minutes. He took an
old-fashioned hour-glass up into the pulpit with him, and when it ran
out he concluded his discourse. Redmarley folk highly approved this
ritual. When stray parsons came to preach, especially if they were
dignitaries of the church, a body could never tell what they might be
at, and the suspense was wearing. Why, the Dean of Garchester had been
known to keep on for half an hour.

The Redmarley worshippers rarely slept. It wasn't worth while.
Instead, they kept a wary