“I—­I’ve only come about a little thing—­at least it’s not a little thing to me, but a very big thing—­er—­er—­”

“What is it?” asked Joanna, a stuffed owl staring disconcertingly over each shoulder.

“For some time there’s been complaints about the music in church.  Of course I’m quite sure Mr. Elphick does wonders, and the ladies of the choir are excellent—­er—­gifted ...  I’m quite sure.  But the harmonium—­it’s very old and quite a lot of the notes won’t play ... and the bellows ...  Mr. Saunders came from Lydd and had a look at it, but he says it’s past repair—­er—­satisfactory repair, and it ud really save money in the long run if we bought a new one.”

Joanna was a little shocked.  She had listened to the grunts and wheezes of the harmonium from her childhood, and the idea of a new one disturbed her—­it suggested sacrilege and ritualism and the moving of landmarks.

“I like what we’ve got very well,” she said truculently—­“It’s done for us properly this thirty year.”

“That’s just it,” said the Rector, “it’s done so well that I think we ought to let it retire from business, and appoint something younger in its place ... he! he!” He looked at her nervously to see if she had appreciated the joke, but Joanna’s humour was not of that order.

“I don’t like the idea,” she said.

Mr. Pratt miserably clasped and unclasped his hands.  He felt that one day he would be crushed between his parishioners’ hatred of change and his fellow-priests’ insistence on it—­rumour said that the Squire’s elder son, Father Lawrence, was coming home before long, and the poor little rector quailed to think of what he would say of the harmonium if it was still in its place.

“I—­er—­Miss Godden—­I feel our reputation is at stake.  Visitors, you know, come to our little church, and are surprised to find us so far behind the times in our music.  At Pedlinge we’ve only got a piano, but I’m not worrying about that now....  Perhaps the harmonium might be patched up enough for Pedlinge, where our services are not as yet Fully Choral ... it all depends on how much money we collect.”

“How much do you want?”

“Well, I’m told that a cheap, good make would be thirty pounds.  We want it to last us well, you see, as I don’t suppose we shall ever have a proper organ.”

He handed her a little book in which he had entered the names of subscribers.

“People have been very generous already, and I’m sure if your name is on the list they will give better still.”

The generosity of the neighbourhood amounted to five shillings from Prickett of Great Ansdore, and half-crowns from Vine, Furnese, Vennal, and a few others.  As Joanna studied it she became possessed of two emotions—­one was a feeling that since others, including Great Ansdore, had given, she could not in proper pride hold back, the other was a queer savage pity for Mr. Pratt and his poor little collection—­scarcely a pound as the result of all his begging, and yet he had called it generous....