iptures concerning the
latter end of the "rich man" ringing in his head; a course of meditation
which, upon the whole, afforded him a distinct sensation of consolation
and comfort.

And the next morning in the churchyard Vera leant against the Cruppsian
sarcophagus, and thought about it.

"Poor old Eustace," she said to herself; "how I wish I were very rich,
and could do his chancel for him! How pleased he would be; and what a
good fellow he is! How odd it is to think what different aims there are
in people's lives! There are Eustace and Marion simply miserable this
morning because of that hideous barn they can't get rid of. Well, it _is_
hideous certainly; but it doesn't disturb my peace of mind in the least.
What a mean curmudgeon Sir John must be, by the way! I should not have
thought it from his photograph; such a frank, open, generous face he
seemed to have. However, we all know how photographs can mislead one.
I wonder where that wretched boy can be!"

The "wretched boy" was Jimmy Griffiths afore-mentioned; he was the youth
who was in the habit of blowing the organ. The schoolmaster, who was also
the organist, was ill, and had sent word to Mr. Daintree that he would be
unable to be at the church on the morrow. Eustace had asked Vera to take
his place. Now Vera was not accomplished; she neither sang, nor played,
nor painted in water-colours; but she had once learnt to play the organ
a little--a very little. So she professed herself willing to undertake
the office of organ-player for once, that is to say, if she found she
could do it pretty well, only she must go into church and try all the
chants over. So Jimmy Griffiths was sent for from the village, and Vera,
with the church key in her pocket, strolled idly into the churchyard,
and, whilst awaiting him, meditated upon the tomb of the two Mrs. Crupps.

She had come in from the private gate of the vicarage, and the vicarage
garden--very bleak and very desolate by this time--lay behind her. To the
right, the public pathway led down through the lych-gate into the
village. Anybody coming up from the village could have seen her as she
stood against the granite monument. She wore a long fur cloak down almost
to her feet, and a round fur cap upon her head; they were her sister
Theodora's sables, which she had left to her. Old Mrs. Daintree always
told her she ought to sell them, a remark which made Vera very angry. Her
back was turned to the village and to the lych-ga