Magdalen herself had enough to do in steering along such a substantial craft as poor Mrs. Best, used to church-going along a street, and shrouded under a squirrel mantle of many pounds weight. Barely in time was the convoy when at last the exhausted lady was helped over the stone stile that led to the churchyard. Highly picturesque was the grey structure outside, but within modernism had not done much; the chancel was feebly fitted after the ideas of the “fifties,” but the faded woodwork of the nave was intact, and Magdalen still had to sit in the grim pew of her predecessors. The girls’ looks at each other might have suited the entrance to a condemned cell, and the pulpit towered above them with a faded green cushion, that seemed in danger of tumbling down over their heads. The service was a plain one, but reverent and careful; the music had a considerable element of harmonium mixed with schoolchild voices, and the sermon from an elderly man was a good one; but when the move to go out was made, and the young ones were beyond ear-shot of their elders, the exclamations were, “Well, I never thought to have gone back to Georgian era.” “Exactly the element of our maiden aunt.” “And nobody to be seen.” “Naggie, why do they shut one up in boxes?” “Just to daunt Flapsy’s roving eye, Tickle, my dear.” “Don’t, Polly. There was nobody to be seen if we hadn’t been in a box. Of course no one comes there but stately old farmers and their smart daughters. I saw one with a Gainsborough hat, and a bunch of cock’s feathers, with a scarlet cactus cocking it up behind.” “Flapsy made use of her opportunities, you see. Being ‘emparocked in a pew’ cannot daunt her spirit of research.” “Now, Nag, I only meant to show you what impossible people they are.” “Natives who will repay the study perhaps,” continued Agatha, reading as though from a book of travels. “We were able to observe a group of the aborigines at their devotions. Conspicuous was a not ungraceful young female, whose head, ornamented with a plume of feathers, towered above the enclosure in which she was secluded, while an aged fakir, hakem or medicine man pronounced from a loftier structure resembling a sentry box.” “Children, children, that’s the wrong way,” came Magdalen’s voice from behind. “You must turn into that lane. Wait a moment.” They waited till Mrs. Best’s lagging steps allowed Magdalen to come up with them, but dead silence fell on them when Mrs. Best observed, “You were very merry.” They could not speak of the cause. Perhaps Magdalen divined something, for she said, “We hope to make some improvements, and so indeed does Mr. Earl, but he is very poor. Besides, newcomers must work slowly.”