The
Boodie has only once laughed out loud, and only twice have Jacky and
Pussy indulged in a deadly scuffle; altogether, there is deep cause for
thankfulness.

The cobweb is still waving to and fro, and now (as Mr. Grainger ascends
the stairs and enters the pulpit), driven, perhaps, by some stronger
current of air, moves rapidly to the right, so that the rector reaches
his place and arranges himself therein, without coming into collision
with it, to Roger's and Dicky's everlasting chagrin.

"A narrow escape," says Dicky, in a careful undertone, to Roger, who,
too, has been breathlessly watching the _denouement_.

"Yes, just like our dismal luck," responds that young man, in an
aggrieved tone. "I'd have bet anything on its catching him by the wig."

Mr. Grainger standing up, after a short and private prayer, looks as if
he was making his bow to the audience, and having surveyed them
leisurely for an embarrassing moment (during which the farmers' wives
fidget, and look as if they would gladly inhabit their boots), he gives
forth his text.

Silence ensues; the curate arranges himself in a purely ascetic
attitude; the rector stamps his foot, in a preparatory sort of way, on
the floor of the massive pulpit, which is as hideous as it is clumsy to
the last degree. There are a few meagre little carvings all round it,
suggestive of tares, and wheat, and good Samaritans, and there is an
impossible donkey in the foreground. It is a very depressing pulpit, but
certainly solid.

"No chance of a breakdown," says Roger, gloomily, fixing, his eye-glass
in his left eye, and surveying with ill concealed disgust the unwieldy
structure before him.

"You're a brave boy," returns Mr. Browne, with exaggerated admiration.
"Fancy your looking for excitement _here_."

"It may be nearer than you think," says Roger, _so_ meaningly, that his
companion applies himself to the translating of his glance. It is fixed,
and fixed on the cobweb, too, which is slowly, slowly floating towards
the rector's head. It comes nearer to it, catches in a rising lock (that
has elevated itself, no doubt, because of the preacher's eloquence), and
lingers there, as though bent on lifting pulpit, Grainger and all to the
ceiling with the next puff of wind.

Roger forgets his grievance, his _ennui_, everything! The situation has
its charm. To his delight he finds Dicky as wrapt in the possible result
as himself. The cobweb sticks fast. Mr. Grainger, lifting his