“It’s a very old one, and looks much more picturesque in the distance.  Shall we have a view a little farther off?”

“St. Mary’s,” said he; “1694 is the date—­”

“St. Mary’s?” said I.  “Fancy!  And what is the date—­1694?”

“It has some fine tablets, Mr. Hawkins, if you’d like to look in—­”

“I don’t care for tablets,” I answered; “if I go to church it is not to stare at tablets.”

At last my host summed up courage to say,—­

“Mr. Hawkins, this is our little harvest festival of thanksgiving, and I should not like to be absent.”

“Why on earth, Mr. Goodman,” I answered, “did you not say that before?  Let us go in by all means.  I like a good harvest as well as any Christian on earth.”

The pew was the family pew—­the whole family pew, and nothing but the family pew; bought with the estate, with the family estate; and was in an excellent situation for the congregation to have a fine view of Mr. Goodman.  Indeed, his cheery face could be seen by everybody in church.

I must say the little edifice looked very nice, and had been adorned with the most artistic taste by the young ladies of the Vicarage and the Hall.  Mr. Goodman was “the Hall.”  There were bunches of neatly-arranged turnips and carrots, with potatoes, barley, oats, and mangel-wurzel, and almost every variety of fruit from the little village; and every girl had barley and wheat-ears in her straw hat.  It was an affecting sight, calculated to make any one adore the young ladies and long for dinner.

The sermon was an excellent one so far as I could pronounce an opinion, but would have been considerably improved had it been three-quarters of an hour shorter.  It contained, however, the usual allusions to harvest-homes, gathering into barns, and laying up treasures; which last observation reminded Mr. Goodman that he had left his purse at home, and had come away without any money.

I saw him fumbling in his pocket.  Now, thought I, the time has come for showing my devotion to Mr. Goodman.  As soon, therefore, as he had whispered to me, I handed him all I had, which consisted of a five-pound note.  He gratefully took it, and although about five times as much as he intended to give, when the bag was handed to him in went the five-pound note.

I knew my friend was chuckling as soon as we got into his family pew at the way in which he had lured me step by step, till we walked the last plank over the ditch, so I was not sorry to return good for evil and lend him my note.

He stared somewhat sideways at me when the bag passed, but I bore it with fortitude.  I took particular notice that the crimson bag passed along the front of our family pew at a very dilatory pace, and tarried a good deal, as if reluctant to leave it.  To and fro it passed in front of my nose as if it contained something I should like to smell, and at last moved away altogether.  I was glad of that, because it prevented my following the words of the hymn in my book, and, unfortunately, it was one of those harvest hymns I did not know by heart.