e rickety gates of
the south porch, I lingered amongst the gravestones, reading their
quaint inscriptions. Quaint both in matter and in the manner of rhyme
and spelling. As I also drew towards the porch, I looked up to see if I
could tell the time by the dial above it. I could not, nor (in spite of
my brief learning in Dr. Russell's grammar) could I interpret the Latin
motto, "_Fugit Hora. Ora_"--"The hour flies. Pray."

As I came slowly and softly up the aisle, I fancied Eleanor was
kneeling, but a strange British shame of prayer made her start to her
feet and kept me from kneeling also; though the peculiar peace and
devout solemnity which seemed to be the very breath of that ancient
House of God made me long to do something more expressive of my feelings
than stand and stare.

There was no handsome church at Riflebury; the one the Bullers
"attended" when we were at the seaside was new, and not beautiful. The
one Miss Mulberry took us to was older, but uglier. I had never seen one
of these old parish churches. This cathedral among the moors, with its
massive masonry, its dark oak carving, its fragments of gorgeous glass,
its ghostly hatchments and banners, and its aisles paved with the
tombstones of the dead, was a new revelation.

I was silent awhile in very awe. I think it was a bird beginning to
chirp in the roof which made me dare to speak, and then I whispered,
"How quiet it is in here, and how cool!"

I had hardly uttered the words when a flash of lightning made me start
and cry out. A heavy peal of thunder followed very quickly.

"Don't be frightened, Margery dear," said Eleanor; "we have very heavy
storms here, and we had better go home. But I am so glad you admire our
dear old church. There was one very hot Sunday last summer, when a
thunderstorm came on during Evening Prayer. I was sitting in the choir,
where I could see the storm through the south transept door, and the
great stones in the transept arches. It was so cool in here, and all
along I kept thinking of 'a refuge from the storm, a shadow in the
heat,' and 'a great rock in a weary land.'"

As we sat together at tea that evening, Eleanor went back to the subject
of the church. I made some remark about the gravestones in the aisles,
and she said, "Next time we go in, I want to show you one of them in the
chancel."

"Who is buried there?" I asked.

"My grandfather, he was vicar, you know, and my aunt, who was sixteen.
(My father has got the wh