second, gather speed,
grow fainter, die away. The thorns ran deep into her hands and she was dimly conscious of the pain. Far below the gate clanged, down among the trees. The branches of the roses shook a little, and more white petals came fluttering down.
ALL SAINTS
THE Vicar moved about the chancel in his cassock, thoughtfully extinguishing the candles. Evensong was over, and the ladies who had composed the congregation pattered down the aisle and melted away into the November dusk. At the back of the church somebody was still kneeling; the Vicar knew that it was the emotional-looking lady in black waiting to speak to him as he came down to the vestry; he feared this might be a matter for the confessional and that she might weep. The church was growing very dark; her black draperies uncertainly detached themselves from the shadows under the gallery. As he came down towards her, her white face looked up at him, she made a rustling movement and half rose. A curious perfume diffused itself around her, through the chilly musti-ness of the pew.
She murmured a request; the Vicar bowed his head."I will wait for you in the church porch,"she said in a clear voice 80
with a suggestion of a tremolo."Perhaps we could walk across the churchyard?"
He hurried to the vestry with the sense of a reprieve.
She was waiting in the porch with her hands clasped, and smiled anxiously at the Vicar, who turned to lock the door behind him.
"Such a beautiful church!"she said as they walked on together.
"We consider it very beautiful."
"How the people must love it."Her manner was very childlike; she half turned to him, shyly, then turned away.
"Would you like another window?"
"A window?"
"A coloured window for the Lady Chapel. I would love to give you a window."She made the offer so simply that the Vicar felt as though he was being offered a kitten.
"But, my dear lady, windows like that are very expensive."
"I know,"she said eagerly,"but I would be quite well able to afford one."
"A—a memorial window?"
"Memorial?"
"Of some relation or dear friend who has passed over?"
"Oh no,"she said vaguely,"I know so many people who have died, but I think none of them would care about a window."
"Then you have no particular purpose?"
"I think coloured windows are so beautiful. They make one feel so religious and good."
The Vicar was nonplussed; he wished to say a great deal to her but did not know how to begin. Her ingenuousness half touched and half offended him. She was not young, either; he could hardly explain her to himself as young. Yet standing up so straight among the slanting tombstones she had no congruity with the year's decline; the monotone of twilight, the sullen evening with its colourless falling leaves rejected her; she was not elderly, he thought. She was perennial, there was that about her that displeased the Vicar; she was theatrical. Having placed her, he felt more at ease.
He said:"I will place your very kind offer before the Vestry,"and took a few steps in the direction of the lych-gate. She looked
up at him with fine eyes that she had once learnt how to use; she was so httle conscious of the Vicar's mascuHnity that he might have been one of the tombstones, but eyes that have learnt their lesson never forget.
"Must you go at once?"she said pathetically."I want to talk a little more about the window. I would like to go and lo'ok from outside at the place where it is going to be."
They retraced their steps a little and took a path that skirted the north side of the church and passed underneath the two east windows.
"I know you are not a resident,"said the Vicar. Still a diffident man, he disliked these inquiries; however oblique, they savoured too strongly of parsonic officiousness. But still, one ought to know.
"Do you think of paying us a long visit? The country is hardly at its best just now. Do you like the village?"
"I think the village is sweet—it does appeal to me. So quaint and homely. I am staying
grow fainter, die away. The thorns ran deep into her hands and she was dimly conscious of the pain. Far below the gate clanged, down among the trees. The branches of the roses shook a little, and more white petals came fluttering down.
ALL SAINTS
THE Vicar moved about the chancel in his cassock, thoughtfully extinguishing the candles. Evensong was over, and the ladies who had composed the congregation pattered down the aisle and melted away into the November dusk. At the back of the church somebody was still kneeling; the Vicar knew that it was the emotional-looking lady in black waiting to speak to him as he came down to the vestry; he feared this might be a matter for the confessional and that she might weep. The church was growing very dark; her black draperies uncertainly detached themselves from the shadows under the gallery. As he came down towards her, her white face looked up at him, she made a rustling movement and half rose. A curious perfume diffused itself around her, through the chilly musti-ness of the pew.
She murmured a request; the Vicar bowed his head."I will wait for you in the church porch,"she said in a clear voice 80
with a suggestion of a tremolo."Perhaps we could walk across the churchyard?"
He hurried to the vestry with the sense of a reprieve.
She was waiting in the porch with her hands clasped, and smiled anxiously at the Vicar, who turned to lock the door behind him.
"Such a beautiful church!"she said as they walked on together.
"We consider it very beautiful."
"How the people must love it."Her manner was very childlike; she half turned to him, shyly, then turned away.
"Would you like another window?"
"A window?"
"A coloured window for the Lady Chapel. I would love to give you a window."She made the offer so simply that the Vicar felt as though he was being offered a kitten.
"But, my dear lady, windows like that are very expensive."
"I know,"she said eagerly,"but I would be quite well able to afford one."
"A—a memorial window?"
"Memorial?"
"Of some relation or dear friend who has passed over?"
"Oh no,"she said vaguely,"I know so many people who have died, but I think none of them would care about a window."
"Then you have no particular purpose?"
"I think coloured windows are so beautiful. They make one feel so religious and good."
The Vicar was nonplussed; he wished to say a great deal to her but did not know how to begin. Her ingenuousness half touched and half offended him. She was not young, either; he could hardly explain her to himself as young. Yet standing up so straight among the slanting tombstones she had no congruity with the year's decline; the monotone of twilight, the sullen evening with its colourless falling leaves rejected her; she was not elderly, he thought. She was perennial, there was that about her that displeased the Vicar; she was theatrical. Having placed her, he felt more at ease.
He said:"I will place your very kind offer before the Vestry,"and took a few steps in the direction of the lych-gate. She looked
up at him with fine eyes that she had once learnt how to use; she was so httle conscious of the Vicar's mascuHnity that he might have been one of the tombstones, but eyes that have learnt their lesson never forget.
"Must you go at once?"she said pathetically."I want to talk a little more about the window. I would like to go and lo'ok from outside at the place where it is going to be."
They retraced their steps a little and took a path that skirted the north side of the church and passed underneath the two east windows.
"I know you are not a resident,"said the Vicar. Still a diffident man, he disliked these inquiries; however oblique, they savoured too strongly of parsonic officiousness. But still, one ought to know.
"Do you think of paying us a long visit? The country is hardly at its best just now. Do you like the village?"
"I think the village is sweet—it does appeal to me. So quaint and homely. I am staying
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