"Because he can afford to pay for the honour. The old squirearchy can't bear the expense."
"Hush, we are close to the church, and must withdraw our minds from the world."
"So I will, dear. Eggin's pigs have been in the garden again."
"There'll be the exhortation to-day, Lamerton, and you must stand up for it. Next Sunday is Sacrament Sunday."
"To be sure. I'll have a lower line of wire round the fences. Those pigs go where a hare will run."
"Have you brought your hymnal with you?"
Lord Lamerton fumbled in his pocket, and produced his yellow silk kerchief and a book together.
"That," said his wife, "is no good; it is the old edition."
"It doesn't matter. I will open the book, and no one will be the wiser."
"But you will be thinking during the hymn of Eggin's pigs and Gammon's sheriffalty."
"I'll do better next Sunday. The gardener tells me they have turned up your single dahlias."
"Hush! we are in the church. Arminell is not in the pew. Where can she be?"
Arminell was not in church. She was, in fact, walking away from it, and by the time her father had entered his pew and looked into his hat, had put a distance of half a mile between herself and the sacred building. A sudden fit of disgust at the routine of Sunday duties had come over her, and she resolved to absent herself that morning from church, and pay a visit to a deserted lime quarry, where she could spend an hour alone, and her moral and religious sense, as she put it, could recover tone after the ordeal of Sunday-school.
"What can induce my lady to take a class every Sunday?" questioned Arminell, in her thought. "It does no good to the children, and it maddens the teachers. But,
