from my Sahib for the loan of a prayer-book. Doubtless, there is a
_Tamasha_ at the 'Kerfedril,' and Coryndon Sahib goes thither to pray."

"I shall place the buttons in his shirt, and recover an eight-anna piece
from the floor, which the master dropped yesterday, to deliver to him
when he shall return. Seek to be honest in thy youth, my son, for in
later life it will repay thee."

Hartley's boy had not been mistaken when he heard Coryndon ask for a
prayer-book and saw him go out on foot. The small persistent bell
outside St. Jude's Church was ringing with desperate energy to collect
any worshippers who might feel inclined to assemble there for evensong,
and the worshippers when collected under the tin roof numbered nearly a
dozen.

It was a bare, barn-like Church, for the wealth of the Cantonment had
flowed in the direction of the Cathedral. The punkah mats flapped
languidly, and the lower part of the church was dark, only the chancel
being lighted with ungainly punkah-proof lamps, and the two altar
candles that threw their gleam on a plain gold cross, guttered in the
heat. A strip of cocoa-nut matting lay along the aisle, and the chancel
and altar steps were covered in sad, faded red. The organist did not
attend except on Sundays or Feast Days, and the service was plain,
conducted throughout by the Rev. Francis Heath.

Coryndon took a seat about half-way up the nave, and when Heath came
into the church, he watched him with interest. He liked to watch a man,
whom it was his business to study, without being disturbed, and Heath's
face in profile, as he knelt at the reading desk, or in full sight as he
stood to read the lesson, attracted the fixed gaze of, at least, one