nodded.  The service, with its need for being continually upon the move, bored her; she was not in the mood for it.  And the sermon, preached by a young curate who had not yet got over his Oxford drawl, was uninteresting.  She had half hoped that the wheezy old clergyman, who had preached about Calvary on the evening she had first visited the church, would be there again.  She wondered what had become of him, and if it were really a fact that she had known him when she was a child, or only her fancy.  It was strange how vividly her memory of him seemed to pervade the little church.  She had the feeling he was watching her from the shadows.  She waited for Mary in the vestibule, and gave her the shawl, making her swear on the big key of the church door that she would wear it herself and not give it away.  The little old pew-opener’s pink and white face flushed with delight as she took it, and the thin, work-worn hands fingered it admiringly.  “But I may lend it?” she pleaded.

They turned up Church Street.  Joan confided to Mary what a rotten Christmas she had had, all by herself, without a soul to speak to except her landlady, who had brought her meals and had been in such haste to get away.

“I don’t know what made me think of you,” she said.  “I’m so glad I did.”  She gave the little old lady a hug.  Mary laughed.  “Where are you going now, dearie?” she asked.

“Oh, I don’t mind so much now,” answered Joan.  “Now that I’ve seen a friendly face, I shall go home and go to bed early.”

They walked a little way in silence.  Mary slipped her hand into Joan’s.  “You wouldn’t care to come home and have a bit of supper with me, would you, dearie?” she asked.

“Oh, may I?” answered Joan.

Mary’s hand gave Joan’s a little squeeze.  “You won’t mind if anybody drops in?” she said.  “They do sometimes of a Sunday evening.”

“You don’t mean a party?” asked Joan.

“No, dear,” answered Mary.  “It’s only one or two who have nowhere else to go.”

Joan laughed.  She thought she would be a fit candidate.

“You see, it makes company for me,” explained Mary.

Mary lived in a tiny house behind a strip of garden.  It stood in a narrow side street between two public-houses, and was covered with ivy.  It had two windows above and a window and a door below.  The upstairs rooms belonged to the churchwardens and were used as a storehouse for old parish registers, deemed of little value.  Mary Stopperton and her bedridden husband lived in the two rooms below.  Mary unlocked the door, and Joan passed in and waited.  Mary lit a candle that was standing on a bracket and turned to lead the way.

“Shall I shut the door?” suggested Joan.

Mary blushed like a child that has been found out just as it was hoping that it had not been noticed.

“It doesn’t matter, dearie,” she explained.  “They know, if they find it open, that I’m in.”