“It’s very kind of you,” said Miss Deriot, with a puzzled smile.

“Don’t thank the fool,” said my sister.  “If I thought he’d be the slightest use to you, I’d send him; but he only wants an excuse to get out of going to church.”

“Poor Jade,” said her husband.  “I am a knight, a simple starlit knight, a Quixote of to-day.  Your brutish instincts——­”

“Carry on, Boy,” said Daphne.  I let in the clutch.  “And come over this afternoon, Agatha, and we’ll tell you all about everything.”

“Yes, do,” cried Jill.

“All right,” said Miss Deriot.  “So long.”

Three minutes later I was berthing the car close to the lich-gate in the shade of sweet-smelling limes, that made a trembling screen of foliage within the churchyard wall.

As luck would have it, Will Noggin, once a groom in our service and now a trooper of the Dragoon Guards, was leaning lazily against the grey wall, taking his ease.  As we drew abreast of him, he stood to attention and saluted, a pleased grin of recognition lighting his healthy face.  We greeted him gladly.

“Glad to see you’re all right, Will,” said Jill.

“Thank you, miss.”

“Aren’t you going to church?” said Daphne.

“Not to-day, m’m.  I’m on leave, and I’ve ‘ad my share o’ church parades i’ the last four years, m’m.”

We all laughed.

“Well, if you’re not going,” said I, “we want some one to keep an eye on the car.”

“I’ll do it gladly, sir.”

“Right oh!  She’s a pretty piece of goods, isn’t she?”

“She is that, sir,” said Will, visibly impressed.

As I followed the others into the porch, I glanced back to see our sentinel walking about his charge, bending an appreciative gaze upon her points.

They were singing the Venite.

On the ledge of our old pew lay a note addressed to “Major Pleydell” in the Vicar’s handwriting.  When Berry had read it he passed it to Daphne, and I was able to read it over her shoulder.

DEAR MAJOR,

Sometimes in the old days you used to read the Lessons.  I think we should all like it if you would do so to-day; but don’t, if you don’t want to.

Yours very sincerely,

JOHN BAGOT.

In a postscript the writer named the appointed passages of Holy Writ.

So soon as the first Psalm had started Berry stepped to the lectern, found his places and cast his eye over the text.  Before the second Psalm was finished, he was once more in his place.

Doors and windows were open as wide as they could be set, and the little church was flooded with light and fresh warm air, that coaxed the edge from the chill of thick stone walls and pillars, and made the frozen pavements cool and refreshing.  Mustiness was clean gone, swept from her frequent haunts by the sweet breath of Nature.  The “dim, religious light” of Milton’s ordering was this day displaced by Summer’s honest smile, simpler maybe, but no less reverent.  And, when the singing was stilled, you overheard the ceaseless sleepy murmur of that country choir of birds and beasts and insects that keeps its rare contented symphony for summer days in which you can find no fault.