on of months as to when mass should be said
again in every village church; but then on the following Sunday the
cobbler's voice had been louder than all in the metrical psalm, and on
the Monday he had paid a morning visit to the Rectory to satisfy himself
on the doctrine of Justification, and had gone again, praising God and
not Our Lady, for the godly advice received.

But again, three years back, just before Mr. Dent had come to the place,
there had been a solemn burning on the village-green of all such
muniments of superstition as had not been previously hidden by the priest
and Sir Nicholas; and in the rejoicings that accompanied this return to
pure religion practically the whole agricultural population had joined.
Some Justices had ridden over from East Grinsted to direct this rustic
reformation, and had reported favourably to the new Rector on his arrival
of the zeal of his flock. The great Rood, they told him, with SS. Mary
and John, four great massy angels, the statue of St. Christopher, the
Vernacle, a brocade set of mass vestments and a purple cope, had perished
in the flames, and there had been no lack of hands to carry faggots; and
now the Rector found it difficult to reconcile the zeal of his
parishioners (which indeed he privately regretted) with the sudden and
unexpected lapses into superstition, such as was Mr. Martin's gratitude
to Our Lady, and others of which he had had experience.

As regards the secular politics of the outside world, Great Keynes took
but little interest. It was far more a matter of concern whether mass or
morning prayer was performed on Sunday, than whether a German bridegroom
could be found for Elizabeth, or whether she would marry the Duke of
Anjou; and more important than either were the infinitesimal details of
domestic life. Whether Mary was guilty or not, whether her supporters
were rising, whether the shadow of Spain chilled the hearts of men in
London whose affair it was to look after such things; yet the cows must
be milked, and the children washed, and the falcons fed; and it was these
things that formed the foreground of life, whether the sky were stormy or
sunlit.

And so, as the autumn of '69 crept over the woods in flame and russet,
and the sound of the sickle was in folks' ears, the life at Great Keynes
was far more tranquil than we should fancy who look back on those
stirring days. The village, lying as it did out of the direct route
between any larger towns, was