Samuel Bishop had taken his place as _locum tenens_.
In the small church where the parishioners met every Sunday, it had
been the custom for some time past for an earnest and well-known
member of the congregation, who had an appreciation for the sound
of his own voice, to read the lessons at Matins and at Evensong. This
duty, combined with that of warden, was fulfilled by Mr. Windle, an
ardent church-goer, a staunch, if somewhat narrow-visioned
Christian, and a man rigid in his adherence to the cause of total
abstinence.
Before morning service on this Easter Sunday, he met the Rev. Samuel
Bishop in the vestry. The organist had already gone to his seat behind
the chancel. The first preliminary notes of the voluntary--weak and
uncertain, because the organ-blower had come late and as yet there
was not sufficient wind in the bellows--were beginning to sound
through the building. The two men were alone.
"I should like to know," Sally's father was saying, in his quiet,
apologetic voice, "how many people you generally expect to
communicate on Easter Sunday. The wine, you know. I want to know how
much wine to pour out."
His face twitched as he waited for the answer.
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