Mr. Bishop walked to the door of the vestry that opened on to the
little country lane. He looked out. There was no trace of the devout
warden. Only a man, carefully dressed, with black leather leggings
encasing his legs from knees to the boot-tops--seemingly the type
of clerk in a country town--was coming up the lane. A thought flew
into the clergyman's head. He beckoned to him. The man quickened his
steps and came up to the door.

In the space of two minutes, with nervous, hurried voice, the Rev.
Samuel had told him of his predicament. The man looked on amazed,
but said nothing.

"Now, have you just come from Communion?" he asked at the conclusion
of his explanation.

"Me?" said the man. "No."

"Then I must entreat you to let me read that part of the service to
you--I assure you it won't take long--that is necessitated by the
taking of the wine. You see I must institute you as a communicant.
You are of course a--a Protestant?" he added in sudden afterthought.

"Me?" said the man. "No."

Mr. Bishop stood up dismayed.

"Not a Protestant?" he exclaimed in wonder.

"No, why should I be? Nor anything else. Don't believe in it,