The familiar click of the latch of the gate which divided the church precincts from the rectory garden, made him turn his head in that direction, to watch his master approaching the scene of his morning’s ministrations.  The Reverend John walked slowly, with uplifted head and tranquil demeanour, and, as he turned aside up the narrow path which led to the vestry at the back of the church the faithful ‘Tummas’ felt a sudden pang.  ‘Passon’ looked too good for this world, he thought,—­his dignity of movement, his serene and steadfast eyes, his fine, thoughtful, though somewhat pale countenance, were all expressive of that repose and integrity of soul which lifts a man above the common level, and unconsciously to himself, wins for him the silent honour and respect of all his fellows.  And yet there was a touch of pathetic isolation about him, too,—­as of one who is with, yet not of, the ordinary joys, hopes, and loves of humanity,—­and it was this which instinctively moved Bainton, though that simple rustic would have been at a loss to express the sense of what he felt in words.  However there was no more leisure for thinking, if he wished to be in his place at the commencement of service.  The servants from Abbot’s Manor were just entering the churchyard-gates, marshalled, as usual, by the housekeeper, Mrs. Spruce, and her deaf but ever dutiful husband,—­ and though Bainton longed to ask one of them if Miss Vancourt and her guests were really coming, he hesitated,—­and in that moment of hesitation, the whole domestic retinue passed into church before him, and he judged it best and wisest to follow quickly in silence, lest, when prayers began, his master should note his absence.

The building was very full,—­and it was difficult to see where, if any strangers did arrive, they could be accommodated.  Miss Eden, in her capacity as organist, was still playing the opening voluntary, but, despite the fact that there was no apparent disturbance of the usual order of things, there was a certain air of hushed expectancy among the people which was decidedly foreign to the normal atmosphere of St. Rest.  The village lasses looked at each other’s hats with keener interest,—­the lads fidgeted with their ties and collars more strenuously, and secreted their caps more surreptitiously behind their legs,—­and the most placid-looking personage in the whole congregation was Josey Letherbarrow, who, in a very clean smock, with a small red rose in his buttonhole, and his silvery hair parted on either side and just touching his shoulders, sat restfully in his own special corner not far from the pulpit, leaning on his stick and listening with rapt attention to the fall and flow of the organ music as it swept round him in soft and ever decreasing eddies of sound.  The bells ceased, and eleven o’clock struck slowly from the church tower.  At the last stroke, the Reverend John entered the chancel in his plain white surplice, spotless as new-fallen snow,-and as he knelt for a moment in silent devotion, the voluntary ended with a grave, long, sustained chord.  A pause,—­and then the ‘Passon’ rose, and faced his little flock, his hand laid on the open ‘Book of Common Prayer.’