figure of the dean come out of his gate, the long black skirts
of his cassock fluttering under the wind of his big steps.
Beside him skipped and ran, to keep step with him, a little man
in ill-fitting black, of whose appearance, thus viewed from the rear,
one could only observe stooping shoulders and iron-gray hair
that curled at the ends.

"He must be the poor missionary who built his church himself,"
Mrs. Lossing observed; "he is not much of a preacher, the dean said,
but he is a great worker and a good pastor."

"So much the better for his people, and the worse for us!"
says Harry, cheerfully.

"Why?"

"Naturally. We shall get the poor sermon and they will get
the good pastoring!"

Then Harry caught sight of a woman's frock and a profile that he knew,
and thought no more of the preacher, whoever he might be.

But he was in the chancel in plain view, after the procession
of choir-boys had taken their seats. He was an elderly man
with thin cheeks and a large nose. He had one of those great,
orotund voices that occasionally roll out of little men, and he read
the service with a misjudged effort to fill the building.
The building happened to have peculiarly fine acoustic properties;
but the unfortunate man roared like him of Bashan.
There was nothing of the customary ecclesiastical dignity