years and more has listened to the same old hymn, the same sing-song response, the same style of sermon.  It is vain to say that the change is still no more than what was—­contemplated by the Book of Common Prayer.  They naturally interpret that book by what they have been accustomed to from childhood.  The vicar’s innovations were really most inoffensive, and well within even a narrow reading of the rubric.  The fault lay in the fact that they were innovations, so far as the practice of that parish was concerned.  So the old folk raised their voices in a chorus of horror, and when they met gossiped over the awful downfall of the faith.  All that the vicar had yet done was to intone a part of the service, and at once many announced that they should stay away.

Next he introduced a choir.  The sweet voices of the white-robed boys rising along the vaulted roof of the old church melted the hearts of those who, with excuses for their curiosity to their neighbours, ventured to go and hear them.  The vicar had a natural talent, almost a genius, for music.  There was a long struggle in his mind whether he might or might not permit himself an organ in his library.  He decided it against himself, mortifying the spirit as well as the flesh, but in the service of the Church he felt that he might yield to his inclination.  By degrees he gathered round him the best voices of the parish; the young of both sexes came gladly after awhile to swell the volume of song.  How powerful is the influence of holy music upon such minds as are at all inclined to serious devotion!  The church filled more and more every Sunday, and people came from the farthest corners of the parish, walking miles to listen.  The young people grew enthusiastic, and one by one the old folk yielded and followed them.

At the same time the church itself seemed to change.  It had been cold and gloomy, and gaunt within, for so many generations, that no one noticed it.  A place of tombs, men hurried away from it as quickly as possible.  Now, little touches here and there gradually gave it the aspect of habitation.  The new curtains hung at the door of the vestry, and drawn, too, across the main entrance when service began, the fleur-de-lys on the crimson ground gave an impression of warmth.  The old tarnished brazen fittings of the pews were burnished up, a new and larger stove (supplied at the vicar’s expense) diffused at least some little heat in winter.  A curate came, one who worked heart and soul with the vicar, and the service became very nearly choral, the vicar now wearing the vestment which his degree gave him the strict right to assume.  There were brazen candlesticks behind the altar, and beautiful flowers.  Before, the interior was all black and white.  Now there was a sense of colour, of crimson curtains, of polished brass, of flowers, and rich-toned altar cloth.  The place was lit up with a new light.  After the first revolt of the old folk there was little opposition, because the vicar, being a man who had studied human nature and full of practical wisdom as well as learning, did all things gradually.  One thing as introduced at a time, and the transition—­after the first start—­was effected imperceptibly.  Nor was any extravagant ritual thrust upon the congregation; nor any suspicious doctrine broached.