Having silenced Objection by force of unreason, Will walked to Lowick as if he had been on the way to Paradise, crossing Halsell Common and skirting the wood, where the sunlight fell broadly under the budding boughs, bringing out the beauties of moss and lichen, and fresh green growths piercing the brown.  Everything seemed to know that it was Sunday, and to approve of his going to Lowick Church.  Will easily felt happy when nothing crossed his humor, and by this time the thought of vexing Mr. Casaubon had become rather amusing to him, making his face break into its merry smile, pleasant to see as the breaking of sunshine on the water—­though the occasion was not exemplary.  But most of us are apt to settle within ourselves that the man who blocks our way is odious, and not to mind causing him a little of the disgust which his personality excites in ourselves.  Will went along with a small book under his arm and a hand in each side-pocket, never reading, but chanting a little, as he made scenes of what would happen in church and coming out.  He was experimenting in tunes to suit some words of his own, sometimes trying a ready-made melody, sometimes improvising.  The words were not exactly a hymn, but they certainly fitted his Sunday experience:—­

“O me, O me, what frugal cheer
My love doth feed upon! 
A touch, a ray, that is not here,
A shadow that is gone: 

“A dream of breath that might be near,
An inly-echoed tone,
The thought that one may think me dear,
The place where one was known,

“The tremor of a banished fear,
An ill that was not done—­
O me, O me, what frugal cheer
My love doth feed upon!”

Sometimes, when he took off his hat, shaking his head backward, and showing his delicate throat as he sang, he looked like an incarnation of the spring whose spirit filled the air—­a bright creature, abundant in uncertain promises.

The bells were still ringing when he got to Lowick, and he went into the curate’s pew before any one else arrived there.  But he was still left alone in it when the congregation had assembled.  The curate’s pew was opposite the rector’s at the entrance of the small chancel, and Will had time to fear that Dorothea might not come while he looked round at the group of rural faces which made the congregation from year to year within the white-washed walls and dark old pews, hardly with more change than we see in the boughs of a tree which breaks here and there with age, but yet has young shoots.  Mr. Rigg’s frog-face was something alien and unaccountable, but notwithstanding this shock to the order of things, there were still the Waules and the rural stock of the Powderells in their pews side by side; brother Samuel’s cheek had the same purple round as ever, and the three generations of decent cottagers came as of old with a sense of duty to their betters generally—­ the smaller children regarding Mr. Casaubon, who wore the black gown and mounted to the highest box, as probably the chief of all betters, and the one most awful if offended.  Even in 1831 Lowick was at peace, not more agitated by Reform than by the solemn tenor of the Sunday sermon.  The congregation had been used to seeing Will at church in former days, and no one took much note of him except the choir, who expected him to make a figure in the singing.