Another voice.  O-o-o-h!

Voice of mercy.  Whu else is there, tu?

Voice of Gladys.  Ivy’s there, an’ Old Mrs. Potter, an’ tu o’ the maids from th’Hall; that’s all as ever.

Voice of Connie.  Not the old grey mare?

Voice of Gladys.  No.  She ain’t ther’.  ’Twill just be th’ymn now, an’ the Blessin’.  Tibby gone for ’em?

Voice of mercy.  Yes.

Voice of Connie.  Mr. Burlacombe’s gone in home, I saw ’im pass by just now—­’e don’ like it.  Father don’t like it neither.

Voice of mercy.  Mr. Strangway shoudn’ ‘ave taken my skylark, an’ thrown father out o’ winder.  ‘Tis goin’ to be awful fun!  Oh!

[She jumps up and dawn in the darkness.  And a voice from far in the shadow says:  “Hsssh!  Quiet, yu maids!” The voice has ceased speaking in the church.  There is a moment’s dead silence.  The voice speaks again; then from the wheezy little organ come the first faint chords of a hymn.]

Gladys.  “Nearer, my God, to Thee!”

Voice of mercy.  ’Twill be funny, with no one ‘ardly singin’.

     [The sound of the old hymn sung by just six voices comes out to
     them rather sweet and clear.]

Gladys. [Softly] ‘Tis pretty, tu.  Why!  They’re only singin’ one verse!

[A moment’s silence, and the voice speaks, uplifted, pronouncing the Blessing:  “The peace of God——­” As the last words die away, dark figures from the inn approach over the grass, till quite a crowd seems standing there without a word spoken.  Then from out of the church porch come the congregation.  Tim Clyst first, hastily lost among the waiting figures in the dark; old Mrs. Potter, a half blind old lady groping her way and perceiving nothing out of the ordinary; the two maids from the Hall, self-conscious and scared, scuttling along.  Last, Ivy Burlacombe quickly, and starting back at the dim, half-hidden crowd.]

Voice of Gladys. [Whispering] Ivy!  Here, quick!

     [Ivy sways, darts off towards the voice, and is lost in the
     shadow.]

Voice of Freman. [Low] Wait, boys, till I give signal.

[Two or three squirks and giggles; Tim Clyst’s voice:  “Ya-as!  Don’t ’ee tread on my toe!” A soft, frightened “O-o-h!” from a girl.  Some quick, excited whisperings:  “Luke!” “Zee there!” “He’s comin’!” And then a perfectly dead silence.  The figure of Strangway is seen in his dark clothes, passing from the vestry to the church porch.  He stands plainly visible in the lighted porch, locking the door, then steps forward.  Just as he reaches the edge of the porch, a low hiss breaks the silence.  It swells very gradually