h had fallen there was still lying six inches deep all over the countryside and on the roads where it had been bea

ee and every branch its sleeves of snow. The whole world seemed buried. Scarce one dark object was to be seen. Only the sea stretched da

den in the hearts of the hedges and even when hunger drew them forth in search of berries,

storks and when the bell stopped ringing it was as though another cloak of silence had been flung over Bridnorth village. The Vicar felt that additi

subject of the attendance would crop up at the Vicar's table as it always did, ever full of interest as is the subject of the booking-office returns to a theatrical manager. He would congratu

because of the weather than they would have thought of turning t

eir goloshes; they held their prayer books in their hands; they each looked for the last time

that of worship. You may desire at most times the quietness of your

n those Devon hills. But that worship was more in the silence of their own hearts, more on the floor at their own bedside than ever it was at the servic

cessity of listening to what the Vicar said from the pulpit, the sterner necessity of trying to understand what he meant; the excitement of wearing a new frock, the speculations upon the new frock worn by another,

anny shifted her hassock to the most restful position for her feet. That sharp interrogative look of criticism drew itself out in the line of Jane's lips and steadied itself in her eyes. Hannah was the only one upon whose face a rapt expression fell. With all her gray hair and her forty years, she was the youngest of them all, still cher

st a significant glance around the church. This was preliminary to every sermon he preached. It was as though he said--"I cannot have any signs of inatt

ed every morning for the twenty years he had been the shepherd

e sounds as Jane once caustically remarked they had heard one tho

ngel said unto her--'Fear not, Mary,