Upon a certain Sunday in June, 1914, Susan Yellam sat as usual in her pew. Across the aisle, higher up, sat the Squire's servants, and behind them the Parson's three maids. Before the service began, Mrs. Yellam noticed that one of the maids was a stranger and not country-bred. The girl flaunted no finery, but the cut of her modest skirt and jacket proclaimed her urban. Mrs. Yellam guessed that this was Mr. Hamlin's new parlourmaid from Old Sarum. She might be described as pretty, but "peaky" and "spindling." The Squire preached eugenics, in and out of season, and upon the subject of young females as potential mothers Mrs. Yellam saw eye to eye with that genial autocrat. However, she consoled herself with the reflection that Nether-Applewhite air and good plain food would accomplish a much needed change. She hoped that the girl would not smirk or giggle if old Captain Davenant read the lessons, an infallible test in propriety for strangers. And she wondered vaguely what Alfred would think of her. For a season, Alfred had "walked out" with this young woman's predecessor, a bouncing, red-cheeked lass of the village. Nothing had come of such perambulations. Alfred was what the French term "un célebataire endurci." And he was made extremely comfortable at home. But he had passed his thirtieth year, and of late his mother had hinted discreetly that her cottage, larger than most, could accommodate three persons--or more. Her thoughts were distracted from the new parlourmaid by the arrival of the Squire and his party. All eyes in the church were concentrated upon the Squire's only son, Lionel, who brought with him his young wife, Joyce, the daughter of Mr. Hamlin. Mrs. Yellam knew that this had been a love-match, brought to a happy issue against opposition. It was known, also, that Master Lionel had left his regiment, the Rifle Brigade, and was installed as his sire's land agent. Tongues had wagged freely concerning a young soldier's competence for such a position. But Mrs. Yellam had firm faith in the lords of the soil. Master Lionel, in her opinion, had done the real right thing, both in his choice of a wife and of a calling. Perhaps to her the call of the land sounded a more clarion note than any other. Mr. Hamlin and the choir filed in. The congregation rose. In the days of Mr. Hamlin's predecessor, nobody budged from his comfortable seat when the parson bustled out of the vestry. Mr. Hamlin had changed all that. He put down billing and cooing in the galleries, and the sucking of peppermints. At first he was regarded with hostile eyes as an innovator, but gradually it became known that he had restored forms and ceremonies which presented definite meaning to the instructed. Villagers love forms and ceremonies when they are discreetly led to understand them.