"No," said Fuller, with the air of mystery in which his class delights; "no, miss, he's not one to be shut off longer than he can help. Hear that sound?" "I do indeed." Latterly she had been listening to nothing else. "That's a saw!" "Well?" "Do you know what he's sawun?" "No." "Planks for benches!" Gwynneth repeated the last word in a puzzled whisper; and so stood staring until the obvious explanation had become obvious to her. It remained inexplicable. "I don't see the good of benches before the church is finished, Mr. Fuller." "He mean to hold his services whether that's finished or not. And I mean to attend 'em," the saddler said with an air. "But--I thought----" "He was suspended for five year, and the bishop has given him leave to get to work directly the five year is up. That I happen to know." "It must be nearly up now!" "That's up next Sunday as ever is, and you'll know it when you hear the bell ring. He's got one of the old uns slung to a tree, for I helped him to sling it, and it's the first help he's had all this time. I wouldn't mention it, miss, for the reverend doesn't want a crowd; there'll be quite enough come when they hear the bell, if it's only to see what happens; but the whole neighbourhood 'll be there if that get about." "And there's really going to be service in the church--just as it is--without a roof--this very next Sunday!" It sounded incredible to Gwynneth, and yet it thrilled her as the incredible does not. The very drone of the saw was thrilling now. "There is, miss, and I mean to be there," said the village Hampden, with inflated chest. "I can't help it if that cost me Sir Wilton's custom, the reverend and me are good friends again, and I mean to be there." XXVI A VERY FEW WORDS It had been in the air all Saturday, but few believed the rumour until ten minutes to eleven next morning. At that hour and at that minute Long Stow was electrified by the measured ringing of a single bell--a bell hoarse with five years' rest and rust--a bell no ear had heard since the night of the fire. Gwynneth was afield upon the upland, far beyond the church, a pitiful waverer between desire and indecision. Now she must go; and now she must not think of it. It was unnecessary, gratuitous, provocative, ostentatious, unmaidenly, immodest--and yet--both her duty and her desire. So the string of adjectives might be applied to her; they were no deterrent to a nature which hesitated often, but seldom was afraid. Gwynneth treated more respectfully the poignant query of her own consciousness: was she absolutely certain that she did not at all desire to show off like the saddler? She was not.