So she had set forth cheerily, volunteering “A fine marnin’, neighbours,” to the first group she had passed upon the road. But dear, to be sure! how the folks had jumped and squeezed themselves against the wall to let her go by! She had not had the heart to greet the next couple, staid elderly folk, who were pacing along in front of her, full of Sabbath righteousness; but presently the man had looked round, and had then nudged his wife, and she had gathered up her skirts and scuttled on without so much as a glance over her shoulder. Poor Ann had fallen back and turned aside into a by-path until all the congregation had streamed in, and then had crept up the steps alone, and made her way to her place blindly, for her eyes were full once more of piteous tears. But even there humiliation awaited her, for she found herself alone in her pew, none of its accustomed occupants being willing to worship in such dangerous proximity. “I must be a terr’ble wicked ’ooman, sure,” groaned Ann to herself, and raised her poor smarting eyes to the east window, whence the figure of the Good Shepherd looked back at her, full of compassion and benignity. But Ann quickly dropped her eyes again. Was He not carrying a lamb upon His shoulder? It seemed to her that even the painted innocent would droop and falter beneath her gaze. And so thenceforth she started for church long after the other members of the congregation, and instead of seeking her own place, stole humbly to a dark corner, where, hidden away behind a pillar, she worshipped in sorrow of heart. Such a state of things could not have continued if the old rector had been at home, but he was away holiday-making in Switzerland, and the _locum tenens_, a young curate from the neighbouring town, could not be expected to notice a matter of the kind. One Sunday afternoon it chanced that Farmer Joyce, who lived up Riverton way, drove over to Little Branston, and was good enough to give a lift to his neighbour, Martha Hansford, Ann’s married daughter, who was feeling, as she confessed, a bit anxious at not hearing from her mother. “There, she haven’t a-wrote since I can’t say when,” she explained to the farmer, as the trap went spinning along the road; “she don’t write herself, mother don’t, but she do generally get somebody to drop me a line for her, and I haven’t heard a word to-month; no, nor last month either.” “Rheumatics perhaps,” suggested the farmer. “I’m sure I hope not, Mr. Joyce. My mother have never had sich a thing in her life, an’ ’tis to be hoped she bain’t a-goin’ to begin now.” “The wold lady’s busy, very like,” hazarded Mr. Joyce, after ruminating a while. “The time do slip away so quick, an’ one day do seem so like another, folks can’t always be expected to put their minds to letter-writin’.”