If only there had not been this single torturing thought—a mere pin-prick, but still curiously persistent. Bribble’s rendering of the service —he had the sort of voice that brings out things—and was still teeming with ideas about it when finally a wild outburst from the organ made it clear that, whatever snivelling there might be down in the chancel, that excellent wind instrument was, in its Mendelssohnian way, as glad as ever it could be. Here was the place behind the shed where she had used to hide from Roddy’s persecutions, and here the border of herbaceous perennials under whose stems was fairyland. Mr. Nor was this impression removed as he stole a glance at Mrs.
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