'Why not? If the deacons are willing, I shall be only too glad.'

* * * * *

It was the first Sunday afternoon in October, and along a dozen
winding moorland paths there came in scattered groups the
worshippers to the Rehoboth shrine. Old men and women, weary with
the weight of years, renewed their youth as they drew near to what
had been a veritable sanctuary amid their care and sorrow and sin;
while manhood and womanhood, leading by the hand their little
ones, felt in their hearts that zeal for the house of prayer so
common to the dwellers in rural England. Long before the hour of
service the chapel-yard was thronged, and from within came the
sounds of stringed instruments as they were tuned to pitch by the
musicians, who had already taken their place in the singing-pew
beneath the pulpit, which stood square and high, canopied with its
old-fashioned sounding-board and cornice of plain deal. There was
'owd Joel Boothman,' who had played the double bass for half a
century, resining his bow with a trembling hand; and Joe and
Robert Hargreaves fondly caressing their 'cellos. Dick o'
Tootershill and his two sons were delicately touching the
trembling strings of their violins; and Enoch was polishing,
beneath the glossy sleeve of his 'Sunday best,' 'th' owd flute'
which had been his salvation.

In a few minutes Mr. Penrose ascended the pulpit. Never before was
there such a congregation to greet him; and as the people rose to
join in singing the old tune, Devizes, the worm-eaten galleries
trembled and creaked beneath the mass of worshippers. Then