kery, and National Schools, and a British School, and a Board
School, also churches of every height, chapels of every denomination,
and iron mission rooms budding out in hopes to be replaced by churches.

Like one of the animals which zoologists call radiated, the town was
constantly stretching out fresh arms along country roads, all living
and working, and gradually absorbing the open spaces between. One of
these arms was known as St. Ambrose's Road, in right of the church, an
incomplete structure in yellow brick, consisting of a handsome chancel,
the stump of a tower, and one aisle just weather-tight and usable, but,
by its very aspect, begging for the completion of the beautiful design
that was suspended above the alms-box.

It was the evening of a summer day which had been very hot. The choir
practice was just over, and the boys came out trooping and chattering;
very small ones they were; for as soon as they began to sing tolerably
they were sure to try to get into the choir of the old church, which
had a foundation that fed, clothed, taught, and finally apprenticed
them. So, though the little fellows were clad in surplices and
cassocks, and sat in the chancel for correctness sake, there was a
space round the harmonium reserved for the more trustworthy band of
girls and young women who came forth next, followed by four or five
mechanics.

Behind came the nucleus of the choir--a slim, fair-haired youth of
twenty; a neat, precise, well-trimmed man, closely shaven, with
stooping shoulders, at least fifteen years older, with a black poodle
at his heels, as well shorn as his master, newly risen from lying
outside the church door; a gentle, somewhat drooping lady in black, not
yet middle-aged and very pretty; a small eager, unformed, black-eyed
girl, who could hardly keep back her words for the outside of the
church door; a tall self-possessed handsome woman, with a fine
classical cast of features; and lastly, a brown-faced, wiry hardworking
clergyman, without an atom of superfluous flesh, but with an air of
great energy.

'Oh! vicar, where are we to go?' was the question so eager to break
forth.

'Not to the Crystal Palace, Nuttie. The funds won't bear it. Mr.
Dutton says we must spend as little as possible on locomotion.'

'I'm sure I don't care for the Crystal Palace. A trumpery tinsel
place, all shams.'

'Hush, hush, my dear, not so loud,' said the quiet lady; but Nuttie
only wriggled her shoulders, tho