Off ran Andrew Penhaligon.  “But, blessed father of us,” said one or two, “we’re all here!  There’s no call to ring the church bell, seem’ you’re neither dead nor afire, blessamercy!”

“Oh, if you’re all here, that alters the case; for ’tis only a proclamation I have to give out at present.  To-morrow mornin’—­Glory be to God!—­I give warnin’ that Divine service will take place in the parish church.”

“You’re sartin you bain’t feelin’ poorly, St. Piran dear?” asked one of the women.

“Thank you, Tidy Mennear, I’m enjoyin’ health.  But, as I was sayin’, the parish church ‘ll be needed to-morrow, an’ so you’d best set to and clean out the edifice:  for I’m thinkin’,” he added, “it’ll be needin’ that.”

“To be sure, St. Piran dear, we’ll humour ye.”

“‘Tisn’ that at all,” the saint answered; “but I’ve had a vision.”

“Don’t you often?”

“H’m! but this was a peculiar vision; or maybe a bit of a birdeen whispered it into my ear.  Anyway, ’twas revealed to me just now in a dream that I stood on the lawn at Bodmin Priory, and peeped in at the Priory window.  An’ there in the long hall sat all the saints together at a big table covered with red baize and plotted against us.  There was St. Petroc in the chair, with St. Guron by his side, an’ St. Neot, St. Udy, St. Teath, St. Keverne, St. Wen, St. Probus, St. Enodar, St. Just, St. Fimbarrus, St. Clether, St. Germoe, St. Veryan, St. Winnock, St. Minver, St. Anthony, with the virgins Grace, and Sinara, and Iva—­the whole passel of ’em.  An’ they were agreein’ there was no holiness left in this parish of mine; an’ speakin’ shame of me, my childer—­of me, that have banked your consciences these fifty years, and always been able to pay on demand:  the more by token that I kept a big reserve, an’ you knew it.  Answer me:  when was there ever a panic in Perranzabuloe? ‘’Twas all very well,’ said St. Neot, when his turn came to speak, ‘but this state o’ things ought to be exposed.’  He’s as big as bull’s beef, is St. Neot, ever since he worked that miracle over the fishes, an’ reckons he can disparage an old man who was makin’ millstones to float when he was suckin’ a coral.  But the upshot is, they’re goin’ to pay us a Visitation to-morrow, by surprise.  And, if only for the parish credit, we’ll be even wid um, by dad!”

St. Piran still lapsed into his native brogue when strongly excited.

But he had hardly done when Andrew Penhaligon came running in—­

“St. Piran, honey, I’ve searched everywhere; an’ be hanged to me if I can find the church at all!”

“Fwhat’s become av ut?” cried the saint, sitting up sharply.

“How should I know?  But devil a trace can I see!”

“Now, look here,” St. Piran said; “the church was there, right enough.”

“That’s a true word,” spoke up an old man, “for I mind it well.  An elegant tower it had, an’ a shingle roof.”