We are in church now.  The service is in progress.  Can it be only five Sundays ago that I was standing here as I am now, watching all the little well-known incidents?  Father standing up in frock-coat and spectacles, keeping a sharp lookout over the top of his prayer-book, to see how late the servants are.  The ill-behaved charity-boys emulously trying who shall make the hind-legs of his chair squeak the loudest on the stone floor.  Toothless Jack leering distantly at Barbara from the side aisle.  Something apparently is amusing him.  He is smiling a little.  I see his teeth.  They, at least, are new. They were not here five weeks ago.  The little starved curate—­the one who tore his gloves into strips—­loses his place in the second lesson, and madly plunges at three different wrong verses in succession, before he regains the thread of his narrative.

We have come to the sermon.  The text is, “I have married a wife, and therefore I cannot come.”  No sooner is it given out than Algy, Bobby, and Tou Tou, all look at me and grin; but father, who has a wily way of establishing himself in the corner of the pew, so as to have a bird’s-eye view of all our demeanors, speedily frowns them down into a preternatural gravity.  Ah, why to-day, of all days, did they laugh? and why to-day, of all days, did the servants file noisily in, numerous and out of breath, in the middle of the psalms?  I tremble when I thing of the bag.

Well, who will may laugh again now:  we are out in the sunshine, with the church-yard grass bowing and swaying in the wind, and the little cloud-shadows flying across the half-effaced names of the forgotten dead, who lie under their lichen-grown tombs.

“Did you see his teeth?” asks Tou Tou, joining me with a leap, almost before I am outside the church-porch.

“They are not comfortable yet,” remarks Bobby, gravely, as he walks beside me carrying my prayer-book.  “I could see that:  he was taking them out, and putting them in again, with his tongue all through the Litany.”

“When once he has secured Barbara, I expect that they will go back with the box for good and all—­eh, Barbara?” say I, laughing, as I speak; but Barbara is out of ear-shot.  She is lingering behind to shake hands with the curate, and ask all the poor old people after their diseases. I never can recollect clearly who has what.  I always apportion the rheumatism wrongly, but she never does.  There she stands just by the church-gate, with the little sunny lights running up and down upon her snow-white gown, shaking each grimy old hand with a kind and friendly equality.

The day rolls by; afternoon service; walk round the grounds; early dinner (we always embitter our lives on Sundays by dining at six, which does the servants no good, and sours the tempers of the whole family); then prayers.  Prayers are always immediately followed by that light refection which we call supper.