A WALK TO CHURCH. 381 



rising exclamation, but it was more than he could do to swal- 

 low with it the remainder of his breakfast. Presently he put 

 the letter in his pocket, rose, and left the room, bidding Lucy 

 prepare for church, but in a tone as altered as his looks. 



We walked with him, as usual, to our place of worship, 

 crossing a field behind the parsonage, which cut off an angle 

 of the road leading seawards and to church. Fresh snow had 

 fallen in the night, and the swept foot-path was bordered by 

 heaped-up ridges ; but not as usual did my uncle threaten to 

 roll Lucy in the flaky feather-beds, nor, when we reached the 

 high stile between the field and road, did he, as usual, jump 

 her over it ; and even when the few villagers, bound church- 

 wards like ourselves, doffed their hats and dropped their curt- 

 seys, they failed to receive, as always, the returning nod or 

 smile, or word of recognition, from their good-humoured, easy 

 pastor. 



The effects of the vicar's letter of the morning were no less 

 discernible in his little antique reading-desk of carved oak. 

 To the consternation of Mr. Caligraph, who sat under it, next 

 the clerk, and the sore bewilderment of those of the congrega- 

 tion who possessed prayer-books and could read them, the 

 three psalms appointed for the morning's service were omitted 

 in favour of those for the 23rd of December, the date, pro- 

 bably, of that mischief- working spell. In the pulpit it was 

 still worse. Each accustomed ear pricked up, as usual, for the 

 sermon, and, expectant of a text appropriate to the day of 



