Deadham church, originally a chapelry of Marychurch Abbey, crowns a green monticule in the centre of Deadham village, backed by a row of big elms.—­A wide, low-roofed structure, patched throughout the course of centuries beyond all unity and precision of design; yet still showing traces of Norman work in the arch of the belfry and in the pillars supporting the rafters of the middle aisle.  At the instance of a former vicar, the whole interior received a thick coat of whitewash, alike over plaster and stone.  This, at the time in question, had been in places scraped off, bringing to light some mural paintings of considerable interest and antiquity.

In the chancel, upon the gospel side, is a finely-carved tomb, with recumbent figures of an armoured knight and richly-robed lady, whose slippered feet push against the effigy of a particularly alert, sharp-muzzled little hound.  The two front pews, in the body of the church, at the foot of the said tomb, are allotted to the owner and household at The Hard.  The slender, lively little hound and the two sculptured figures lying, peaceful in death, for ever side by side, touched and captivated Damaris from the first time she set eyes on them.  She reverenced and loved them, weaving endless stories about them when, in the tedium of prayer or over-lengthy sermon, her attention, all too often, strayed.

This morning the three bells jangled altogether as she reached the churchyard gate.  Then the smallest tolled alone, hurrying stragglers.  She was indeed late, the bulk of the congregation already seated, the Canon at the reading-desk and Mrs. Horniblow wheezing forth a voluntary upon the harmonium, when she walked up the aisle.

But, during her brief passage, Damaris could not but observe the largeness of the assembly.  An uncommon wave of piety must have swept over the parish this morning!  The Battyes and Taylors were present in force.  Farmers and tradespeople mustered in impressive array.  Even Dr. Cripps—­by no means a frequent churchgoer—­and his forlorn-looking, red-eyed little wife were there.  The Miss Minetts had a lady with them—­a plump, short little person, dressed with attempted fashion, whose back struck Damaris as quaintly familiar, she catching a glimpse of it in passing.  Most surprising of all, William Jennifer headed a contingent from the Island, crowding the men’s free seats to right and left of the west door.  An expectancy, moreover, seemed to animate the throng.  Then she remembered, the new curate, Reginald Sawyer, had informed her and Miss Felicia two evenings ago when he had called and been bidden to stay to tea, that he would preach for the first time at the eleven o’clock service.  So far he had only occupied the pulpit on Sunday afternoons, when a country congregation is liable to be both scanty and somnolent.  To-day he would prove himself before the heads of tribes, before the notables.  And Damaris wished him well, esteeming him a worthy young man, if somewhat provincial and superfluously pompous.