"Ay, did he, and sent doun a big chiel, like an auld eagle, wi' a' his feathers ruffled the wrang way. But the minister, he stood his ground: `There were three, Mr Archdeacon,' says he, as quiet as a mill-tarn, `and the Lord Himsel' made the third.' `And how am I to ken that?' says the big chiel, ruffling up his feathers belike. `Will ye be sae gude as to ask Him?' says the minister. I dinna ken what the big chiel made o' the tale to the Bishop, but we heard nae mair on't. Maybe he did ask Him, and gat the auld answer,--`Touch not Mine anointed, and do My prophet no harm.'" "Still, rules ought to be kept, Sam." "Rules ought to be kept in ordinar'. But this was bye-ordinar', ye see. If a big lad has been tauld no to gang frae the parlour till his faither comes back, and he sees his little brither drooning in the pond just afore the window, I reckon his faither 'll no be mickle angered if he jumps out of the window and saves him. Any way, I wad nae like to ha'e what he'd get, gin he said,--`Faither, ye bade me tarry in this chalmer, and sae I could nae do a hand's turn for Willie.' Rules are man's, Miss Cary, but truth and souls belang to God." My Aunt Kezia and Sophy had come in while Sam was talking, and Father and Hatty followed now, so we sat down to breakfast. "Sam has told you one story, girls," said my Aunt Kezia, "and I will tell you another. You will find the singers changed when you go to church. Dan Oldfield and Susan Nixon are gone." "Dan and Susan!" cried Hatty. "The two best voices in the gallery!" "Well, you know, under old Mr Digby, there always used to be an anthem before the service began, in which Dan and Susan did their best to show off. The second week that Mr Liversedge was here, he stopped the anthem. Up started the singers, and told him they would not stand it. It wasn't worth their while coming just for the psalms. Mr Liversedge heard them out quietly, and then said,--`Do you mean what you have just said?' Yes, to be sure they meant it. `Then consider yourselves dismissed from the gallery without more words,' says he. `You are not worthy to sing the praises of Him before whom multitudes of angels veil their faces. Not worth your while to praise God!--but worth your while to show man what fine voices He gave you whom you think scorn to thank for it!' And he turned them off there and then." The next time I was alone with Sophy, she said to me, with tears in her eyes,--"Cary, I don't want you to reckon me worse than I am. That is bad enough, in all conscience. I would have knelt down with Annie Crosthwaite, and so, I am sure, would my Aunt Kezia; but it was while she was up in London with you, and Father was so poorly with the gout, I could not leave him. You see there was nobody to take my place, with all of you away. Please don't fancy I was one of those that refused, for indeed it was not so."