the uproar was the sight that met my eyes.  The boys, nine or ten sturdy little rustics with round sunburnt West Country faces, were playing the roughest game ever witnessed in a church.  Some were engaged in a sort of flying fight, madly pursuing one another up and down the aisles and over the pews, and whenever one overtook another he would seize hold of him and they would struggle together until one was thrown and received a vigorous pommelling.  Those who were not fighting were dancing to the music.  It was great fun to them, and they were shouting and laughing their loudest only not a sound of it all could be heard on account of the thunderous roar of the organ which filled and seemed to make the whole building tremble.  The boys took no notice of me, and seeing that there was a singularly fine west window, I went to it and stood there some time with my back to the game which was going on at the other end of the building, admiring the beautiful colours and trying to make out the subjects depicted.  In the centre part, lit by the after-glow in the sky to a wonderful brilliance, was the figure of a saint, a lovely young woman in a blue robe with an abundance of loose golden-red hair and an aureole about her head.  Her pale face wore a sweet and placid expression, and her eyes of a pure forget-me-not blue were looking straight into mine.  As I stood there the music, or noise, ceased and a very profound silence followed—­not a giggle, not a whisper from the outrageous young barbarians, and not a sound of the organist or of anyone speaking to them.  Presently I became conscious of some person standing almost but not quite abreast of me, and turning sharply I found a clergyman at my side.  He was the vicar, the person who had been letting himself go on the organ; a slight man with a handsome, pale, ascetic face, clean-shaven, very dark-eyed, looking more like an Italian monk or priest than an English clergyman.  But although rigidly ecclesiastic in his appearance and dress, there was something curiously engaging in him, along with a subtle look which it was not easy to fathom.  There was a light in his dark eyes which reminded me of a flame seen through a smoked glass or a thin black veil, and a slight restless movement about the corners of his mouth as if a smile was just on the point of breaking out.  But it never quite came; he kept his gravity even when he said things which would have gone very well with a smile.

“I see,” he spoke, and his penetrating musical voice had, too, like his eyes and mouth, an expression of mystery in it, “that you are admiring our beautiful west window, especially the figure in the centre.  It is quite new—­everything is new here—­the church itself was only built a few years ago.  This window is its chief glory:  it was done by a good artist—­he has done some of the most admired windows of recent years; and the centre figure is supposed to be a portrait of our generous patroness.  At all events she sat for it to him.  You have probably heard of Lady Y—?”