“That eastern window is crude—­very crude!” said a growlingly robust baritone; “I suppose the reverend gentleman could not secure sufficient subscriptions to meet the expense of suitable stained glass?”

“Unfortunately Mr. Walden is a very self-opinionated man,” replied a smooth and oily tenor, whose particular tone of speech Walden recognised as that of the Reverend ‘Putty’ Leveson, the minister of Badsworth, a small scattered village some five or six miles ’on the wrong side of Badsworth Hall,’ as the locality was called, owing to its removed position from the county town of Riversford.  “He would not accept outside advice.  Of course these columns and capitals are all wrong,—­they are quite incongruous with early Norman walls,—­but when ignorance is allowed to have its own way, the effect is always disastrous.”

“Always—­always,—­my dear sir—­always!” And the voice or Sir Morton Pippitt, high pitched and resonant, trolled out on the peaceful air; “The fact is, the church could have been much better done, had I been consulted!  The whole thing was carried out in the most brazen manner, under my very nose, sir, under my very nose!—­without so much as a ‘by your leave’!  Shocking, shocking!  I complained to the Bishop, but it was no use, for it seems that he has a perfect infatuation for this man Walden—­they were college friends or something of that kind.  As for the sarcophagus here, of course it ought in the merest common decency to have been transferred to the Cathedral of the diocese.  But you see the present incumbent bought the place;—­the purchase of advowsons is a scandal, in my opinion—­ however this man got it all his own way, more’s the pity!—­he bought it through some friend or other—­and so—­”

“So he could do as he liked with it!” said a mild, piping falsetto; “And so far, he has made it beau-ti-ful!—­beau-ti-ful!” carved with traceries of natural fruit and foliage, which were scarcely injured by the devastating mark of time.  But rough and sacrilegious hands had been at work to spoil and deface the classic remains of the time-worn edifice, and some of the lancet windows had been actually hewn out and widened to admit of the insertion of modern timber props which awkwardly supported a hideous galvanised iron roof, on the top of which was erected a kind of tin hen-coop in which a sharp bell clanged with irritating rapidity for Sunday service.  Outside, the building was thus rendered grotesquely incongruous,—­inside it was almost blasphemous in its rank ugliness.  There were several rows of narrow pews made of common painted deal,—­there was a brown stone font and a light pine-wood pulpit—­a small harmonium stood in one corner, festooned by a faded red woollen curtain, and a general air of the cheap upholsterer and jerry-builder hovered over the whole concern.  And the new incumbent, gazing aghast at the scene, was triumphantly informed that “Sir Morton Pippitt had been generous enough to roof and ‘restore’