the Vicar's handwriting. When Berry had read it he passed it to Daphne,
and I was able to read it over her shoulder.

_DEAR MAJOR,_

_Sometimes in the old days you used to read the Lessons. I think we
should all like it if you would do so to-day; but don't, if you don't
want to._

_Yours very sincerely,_

_JOHN BAGOT._

In a postscript the writer named the appointed passages of Holy Writ.

So soon as the first Psalm had started Berry stepped to the lectern,
found his places and cast his eye over the text. Before the second Psalm
was finished, he was once more in his place.

Doors and windows were open as wide as they could be set, and the little
church was flooded with light and fresh warm air, that coaxed the edge
from the chill of thick stone walls and pillars, and made the frozen
pavements cool and refreshing. Mustiness was clean gone, swept from her
frequent haunts by the sweet breath of Nature. The "dim, religious
light" of Milton's ordering was this day displaced by Summer's honest
smile, simpler maybe, but no less reverent. And, when the singing was
stilled, you overheard the ceaseless sleepy murmur of that country choir
of birds and beasts and insects that keeps its rare contented symphony
for summer days in which you can find no fault.