The “wretched boy” was Jimmy Griffiths afore-mentioned; he was the youth who was in the habit of blowing the organ.  The schoolmaster, who was also the organist, was ill, and had sent word to Mr. Daintree that he would be unable to be at the church on the morrow.  Eustace had asked Vera to take his place.  Now Vera was not accomplished; she neither sang, nor played, nor painted in water-colours; but she had once learnt to play the organ a little—­a very little.  So she professed herself willing to undertake the office of organ-player for once, that is to say, if she found she could do it pretty well, only she must go into church and try all the chants over.  So Jimmy Griffiths was sent for from the village, and Vera, with the church key in her pocket, strolled idly into the churchyard, and, whilst awaiting him, meditated upon the tomb of the two Mrs. Crupps.

She had come in from the private gate of the vicarage, and the vicarage garden—­very bleak and very desolate by this time—­lay behind her.  To the right, the public pathway led down through the lych-gate into the village.  Anybody coming up from the village could have seen her as she stood against the granite monument.  She wore a long fur cloak down almost to her feet, and a round fur cap upon her head; they were her sister Theodora’s sables, which she had left to her.  Old Mrs. Daintree always told her she ought to sell them, a remark which made Vera very angry.  Her back was turned to the village and to the lych-gate, and she was looking up at poor Eustace’s bug-bear—­the barn-like chancel.

Suddenly somebody came up close behind her and spoke to her.

“Can you tell me, please, where the keys of the church are kept?”

A gentleman stood beside her, lifting his hat as he spoke.  Vera started a little at being so suddenly spoken to, but answered quite quietly and unconfusedly,

“They are generally kept at the vicarage, or else in the clerk’s cottage.”

“Thank you; then I will go and fetch them.”

“But they are not there now,” said Vera, as though finishing her former remark.

“If you will kindly tell me where I can find them,” continued the stranger, very politely, “I will go and get them.”

“I am afraid you can’t do that,” said Vera, with just the vestige of a smile playing upon her face, “because they are at present in my pocket.”

“Oh, I beg your pardon;” and the stranger smiled outright.

“But I will let you into the church, if you like; if that is what you wish?” she said, quite simply.

“Yes, if you please.”  Vera moved up the path to the porch, the gentleman following her.  She turned the key in the heavy door and held it open.  “If you will go in, please, I will take the keys; I must not leave them in the door.”  The gentleman went in, and Vera looked at him as he passed by.