The blue bells were under water in truth—­drenched and drowned.  And yet as the girl stood up before her, she looked taller—­more the magnificent Miss Vanderpoel than ever—­though she expressed a new meaning.

“There is one thing the villagers can do for him,” she said.  “One thing we can all do.  The bell has not tolled yet.  There is a service for those who are—­in peril.  If the vicar will call the people to the church, we can all kneel down there—­and ask to be heard.  The vicar will do that I am sure—­and the people will join him with all their hearts.”

Mrs. Brent was overwhelmed.

“Dear, dear, Miss Vanderpoel!” she exclaimed.  “That is touching, indeed it is!  And so right and so proper.  I will drive back to the village at once.  The vicar’s distress is as great as mine.  You think of everything.  The service for the sick and dying.  How right—­how right!”

With a sense of an increase of value in herself, the vicar, and the vicarage, she hastened back to the pony carriage, but in the hall she seized Betty’s hand emotionally.

“I cannot tell you how much I am touched by this,” she murmured.  “I did not know you were—­were a religious girl, my dear.”

Betty answered with grave politeness.

“In times of great pain and terror,” she said, “I think almost everybody is religious—­a little.  If that is the right word.”

There was no ringing of the ordinary call to service.  In less than an hour’s time people began to come out of their cottages and wend their way towards the church.  No one had put on his or her Sunday clothes.  The women had hastily rolled down their sleeves, thrown off their aprons, and donned everyday bonnets and shawls.  The men were in their corduroys, as they had come in from the fields, and the children wore their pinafores.  As if by magic, the news had flown from house to house, and each one who had heard it had left his or her work without a moment’s hesitation.  They said but little as they made their way to the church.  Betty, walking with her sister, was struck by the fact that there were more of them than formed the usual Sunday morning congregation.  They were doing no perfunctory duty.  The men’s faces were heavily moved, most of the women wiped their eyes at intervals, and the children looked awed.  There was a suggestion of hurried movement in the step of each—­as if no time must be lost—­as if they must begin their appeal at once.  Betty saw old Doby tottering along stiffly, with his granddaughter and Mrs. Welden on either side of him.  Marlow, on his two sticks, was to be seen moving slowly, but steadily.

Within the ancient stone walls, stiff old knees bent themselves with care, and faces were covered devoutly by work-hardened hands.  As she passed through the churchyard Betty knew that eyes followed her affectionately, and that the touching of foreheads and dropping of curtsies expressed a special sympathy.  In each mind she was connected with the man they came to pray for—­with the work he had done—­with the danger he was in.  It was vaguely felt that if his life ended, a bereavement would have fallen upon her.  This the girl knew.