“Why, it is our Bessie!” cried Jack, and sprang at her with a shout, quite forgetful of Sunday sobriety.

“Oh, Jack!  But you are taller than I am now,” said she, arresting his rough embrace and giving her hand to her mother.  They kissed each other, and, deferring all explanations, Bessie whispered, “May I come home with you after service and spend the day?”

“Yes, yes—­father will be in then.  He has had to go to Mrs. Christie:  Mr. Robb has been attending her lately, but the moment she is worse nothing will pacify her but seeing her old doctor.”

They crossed the road to the church in a group.  Mr. Phipps came up at the moment, grotesque and sharp as ever.  “Cinderella!” exclaimed he, lifting his hat with ceremonious politeness.  “But where is the prince?” looking round and feigning surprise.

“Oh, the prince has not come yet,” said Bessie with her beautiful blush.

Mrs. Carnegie emitted a gentle sound, calling everybody to order, and they entered the church.  Bessie halted at the Carnegie pew, but the children filled it, and as she knew those boys were only kept quiet during service by maternal control, she passed on to the Fairfield pew in the chancel, where Dora Meadows was already ensconced.  Lady Latimer presently arrived alone:  Mr. Logger had committed himself to an opinion that it was a shame to waste such a glorious morning in church, and had declined, at the last moment, to come.  He preferred to criticise preachers without hearing them.

The congregation was much fuller than Bessie remembered it formerly.  Beechhurst had reconciled itself to its pastor, and had found him not so very bad after all.  There was no other church within easy reach, divine worship could not, with safety, be neglected altogether, and the aversion with which he was regarded did not prove invincible.  It was the interest of the respectable church-people to get over it, and they had got over it, pleading in extenuation of their indulgence that, in the first place, the rector was a fixture, and in the second that his want of social tact was his misfortune rather than his fault, and a clergyman might have even worse defects than that.  Lady Latimer, Admiral Parkins, Mr. Musgrave, and Miss Wort had supported him in his office from the first, and now Mr. Phipps and Mr. Carnegie did not systematically absent themselves from his religious ministrations.

The programme of the service, so to speak, was also considerably enlarged since Bessie Fairfax went away.  There was a nice-looking curate whom she recollected as one of the rector’s private pupils—­Mr. Duffer.  There were twelve men and boys in white raiment, and Miss Buff, presiding at the new organ with more than her ancient courage, executed ambitious music that caused strangers and visitors to look up at the loft and inquire who the organist was.  Players and singers were not always agreed, but no one could say otherwise than that, for a country church,