hosoever may enter it.

The cobweb, as it waves lazily backward and forward with every breeze
that assails it, is a thing of joy to Roger and Dicky Browne, who are
sitting side by side. It is an unspeakable boon, a sweet attraction, an
everlasting resource to them throughout the service. As it goes to and
fro their eyes follow it; they would willingly bet upon it were such a
thing practicable; and they wait in a charmed suspense until such time
as some one will enter the pulpit, to see whether the some one will
attack the cobweb, or the cobweb attack the some one.

Besides the cobweb there is a clerk and a sexton. Sometimes they say
Amen when the idea strikes them; sometimes they don't; it is awkward
when they _don't_. Then a lull in the performance makes itself felt,
though it is always somewhat broken by the voice of the curate, which is
monotonous in the extreme.

A few stray sunbeams are straggling in through the narrow windows, and
are holding high festival in Dulce's bonnet; a perfect crown of glory
envelops her head. The day being exceptionally warm, everything and
every one is drowsy and sleepy, and a trifle inattentive.

Meanwhile, the service progresses surely, if slowly. Uncle Christopher's
head is courting his chest; Fabian, who always sits next to him, is
unmistakably wide-awake, but has his head lowered, and his eyes fixed
moodily upon the carpet at his feet. He looks attentive, but is really
miles away from the Commandments and from everything.

Portia, in her white gown, is looking more than ordinarily lovely, and
just now is gazing oddly at Fabian. She is vaguely wondering how he
would look if he permitted himself to smile. He is always so
preternaturally grave that she is curious to know if a smile--once
indulged in--would imbitter or sweeten his face. Yes; Roger was quite
right when he said the other day that Fabian's face was perfect. Perhaps
even the smile she desires to see upon it could not improve it. Nay, it
might even mar it, so severe are its lines; but were they _always_ so?
She is lost in impossible speculation!

Dulce, clad all in severe black, with her hands crossed upon her knees,
like a small devotee, is looking straight before her at nothing
particular, and is utterly unconscious that the strange young man in the
"Fens" pew is regarding her with an amount of attention he has certainly
not expended on his prayers.

The children have behaved wonderfully well, all things considered.