th another book, lent effective aid with the anthem. He
stood up decorously as the choir filed out after the Grace, and then sat
down again in his seat to listen to the voluntary. Mr Sharnall
determined to play something of quality as a tribute to the unknown
tenor, and gave as good a rendering of the Saint Anne's fugue as the
state of the organ would permit. It was true that the trackers rattled
terribly, and that a cipher marred the effect of the second subject; but
when he got to the bottom of the little winding stairs that led down
from the loft, he found the stranger waiting with a compliment.

"Thank you very much," he said; "it is very kind of you to give us so
fine a fugue. It is many years since I was last in this church, and I
am fortunate to have chosen so sunny an afternoon, and to have been in
time for your service."

"Not at all, not at all," said the organist; "it is we who are fortunate
in having you to help us. You read well, and have a useful voice,
though I caught you tripping a little in the lead of the _Nunc Dimittis_
Gloria." And he sung it over by way of reminder. "You understand
church music, and have sung many a service before, I am sure, though you
don't look much given that way," he added, scanning him up and down.

The stranger was amused rather than offended at these blunt criticisms,
and the catechising went on.

"Are you stopping in Cullerne?"

"No," the other replied courteously; "I am only here for the day, but I
hope I may find other occasions to visit the place and to hear your
service. You will have your full complement of voices next time I come,
no doubt, and I shall be able to listen more at my ease than to-day?"

"Oh no, you won't. It's ten to one you will find us still worse off.
We are a poverty-stricken lot, and no one to come over into Macedonia to
help us. These cursed priests eat up our substance like canker-worms,
and grow sleek on the money that was left to keep the music going. I
don't mean the old woman that read this afternoon; he's got _his_ nose
on the grindstone like the rest of us--poor Noot! He has to put brown
paper in his boots because he can't afford to have them resoled. No,
it's the Barabbas in the rectory-house, that buys his stocks and shares,
and starves the service."

This tirade fell lightly on the stranger's ears. He looked as if his
thoughts were a thousand miles away, and the organist broke off:

"Do you play the organ? Do you un