on, and before the service was over Reuben had made up
his mind. He would speak to Ruth after church, and at least decide
his own chances. The vicar's sermon was brief, for the good man had no
rival, and could afford to please himself; but its duration, short as it
was, gave Reuben ample time to be rejected and accepted a score of times
over, and to gild the future with the rosiest or cloud it with the most
tempestuous of colors. The Earl of Barfield, according to his custom,
had arrived late, and it comforted Reuben a little to think that in his
presence, at all events, the young gentleman could make no progress
with his love affairs. It comforted him further to see that Ruth took no
notice of the glances of her admirer, and that she was to all appearance
unconscious of them and of him.

But when once he had made up his mind to instant action, the vicar's
brief discourse began to drag itself into supernatural length. Facing
the preacher, and immediately beneath Reuben's feet, was a clock of
old-fashioned and clumsy structure, and the measured tick, tick of its
machinery communicated a faintly perceptible jar to a square foot or so
of the gallery flooring. The mechanical rhythm got into Reuben's brain
and nerves until every second seemed to hang fire for a phenomenal time,
and the twenty minutes' discourse dragged into an age. Even when the
vicar at last lifted his eyes from the neatly ranged papers which lay on
the pulpit cushion before him, laid down his glasses, and without pause
or change of voice passed on to the benediction, and even when after the
customary decent pause the outward movement of the congregation began,
Reuben's impatience had still to be controlled, for it was the duty of
the band to play a solemn selection from the works of some old master
while the people filed away. Reuben led, and since the others must needs
follow at the pace he set, the old master was led to a giddier step than
he had ever danced to in a church before. Sennacherib was scandalized,
and even the mild Fuller was conscious of an inward rebellion. The taste
in Heydon Hay was rather in favor of drawl than chatter, and the
old masters in their serious moods were accustomed to be taken with
something more than leisure.

"Why, Reuben, lad," began Sennacherib, "how didst come to let your hand
run away with your elber i' that way?"

But Reuben, sticking his hat on anyhow, was gone before the old man had
finished his question, thrustin