date it had not occurred to people that fresh air was not a menace to existence.  The whole congregation was sweltering, and rather enjoying it; for in some strangely subtle manner perspiration seemed to be a help to religious emotion.  Scores of women were fanning themselves; and among these was a very stout peony-faced woman of about forty in a gorgeous yellow dress and a red-and-black bonnet, with a large boy and a small girl under one arm, and a large boy and a small girl under the other arm.  The splendour of the group appeared somewhat at odds with the penury of the “Free Seats,” whither it had been conducted by a steward.

In the pulpit, dominating all, was Jock-at-a-Venture, who sweated like the rest.  He presented a rather noble aspect in his broadcloth, so different from his careless, shabby week-day attire.  His eye was lighted; his arm raised in a compelling gesture.  Pausing effectively, he lifted a glass with his left hand and sipped.  It was the signal that he had arrived at his peroration.  His perorations were famous.  And this morning everybody felt, and he himself knew, that all previous perorations were to be surpassed.  His subject was the wrath to come, and the transient quality of human life on earth.  “Yea,” he announced, in gradually-increasing thunder, “all shall go.  And loike the baseless fabric o’ a vision, the cloud-capped towers, the gorgeous palaces, the solemn temples, the great globe itself—­Yea, I say, all which it inherit shall dissolve, and, like this insubstantial payjent faded, leave not a rack behind.”

His voice had fallen for the last words.  After a dramatic silence, he finished, in a whisper almost, and with eyebrows raised and staring gaze directed straight at the vast woman in yellow:  “We are such stuff as drames are made on; and our little life is rounded with a sleep.  May God have mercy on us.  Hymn 442.”

The effect was terrific.  Men sighed and women wept, in relief that the strain was past.  Jock was an orator; he wielded the orator’s dominion.  Well he knew, and well they all knew, that not a professional preacher in the Five Towns could play on a congregation as he did.  For when Jock was roused you could nigh see the waves of emotion sweeping across the upturned faces of his hearers like waves across a wheatfield on a windy day.

And this morning he had been roused.

VI

But in the vestry after the service he met enemies, in the shape and flesh of the chapel-steward and the circuit-steward, Mr Brett and Mr Hanks respectively.  Both these important officials were local preachers, but, unfortunately, their godliness did not protect them against the ravages of jealousy.  Neither of them could stir a congregation, nor even fill a country chapel.

“Brother Smith,” said Jabez Hanks, shutting the door of the vestry.  He was a tall man with a long, greyish beard and no moustache.  “Brother Smith, it is borne in upon me and my brother here to ask ye a question.”