We laughed at these things, but in my serious moments, especially on
the first Sunday of the month, I was haunted by something else which
Nurse had told me about old Mr. Rampant.

In our small parish--a dull village on the edge of a marsh--the Holy
Communion was only celebrated once a month. It was not because he was
irreligious that old Mr. Rampant was one of the too numerous
non-communicants. "It's his temper, poor gentleman," said Nurse. "He
can't answer for himself, and he has that religious feeling he
wouldn't like to come unless he was fit. The housekeeper overheard
Mrs. Rampant a-begging of him last Christmas. It was no listening
either, for he bellowed at her like a bull, and swore dreadful that
whatever else he was he wouldn't be profane."

"Couldn't he keep his temper for a week, don't you think?" said I
sadly, thinking of my mother's old copy of the _Weeks Preparation_ for
the Lord's Supper.

"It would be as bad if he got into one of his tantrums directly
afterwards," said Nurse: "and with people pestering for
Christmas-boxes, and the pudding and turkey, and so many things that
might go wrong, it would be as likely as not he would. It's a sad
thing too," she added, "for his neck's terribly short, and they say
all his family have gone suddenly with the apoplexy. It's an awful
thing, Miss Isobel, to be taken sudden--and unprepared."

The awe of it came back on me every month when the fair white linen
covered the rustiness of the old velvet altar-cloth which the marsh
damps were rotting, and the silver vessels shone, and the village
organist played out the non-communicants with a somewhat inappropriate