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occasionally in summer a small congregation assembled. Before this, at about a quarter to seven, the Archdeacon was in the habit of saying Morning Prayer publicly, as he was required to do by the rubrics. Once a week, on Thursday mornings, he was assisted by the sexton; on the other mornings he assisted himself. As, however, the sexton with growing frequency overslept himself, the Archdeacon preferred to keep the key of the church himself, and it was with this in his hand that he came to the west door about half-past six the next morning. At the door, however, he stopped, astonished. For it hung open and wrenched from the lock, wrenched and broken and pushed back against the other wall. The Archdeacon stared at it, went closer and surveyed it, and then hastened into the church. A few minutes gave him the extent of the damage. The two boxes, for the Poor and for the Church, that were fixed not far from the font, had also been opened, and their contents, if they had any, looted; the candlesticks on the altar had been thrown over, the candles in them broken and smashed, and the frontal pulled away and torn. In the sacristy the lock of the cabinet had been forced and the gold chalice which commemorated the late Sir John had disappeared, together with the gold paten. On the white-washed wall had been scrawled a few markings—“Phallic,” the Archdeacon murmured, with a faint smile. He came back to the front door in time to see the sexton at the gate of the churchyard, and, judiciously lingering on the footpath beyond, two spasmodically devout ladies of the parish. He waved to them all to hurry, and when they arrived informed them equably of the situation.
    â€œBut, Mr. Archdeacon——” Mrs. Major cried.
    â€œBut, Mr. Davenant——” Miss Willoughby, who, as being older, both in years and length of Fardles citizenship, than most of the ladies of the neighbourhood, permitted herself to use the personal name. And “Who can have done it?” they both concluded.
    â€œAh!” the Archdeacon said benignantly. “A curious business, isn’t it?”
    â€œIsn’t it sacrilege?” said Mrs. Major.
    â€œWas it a tramp?” asked Miss Willoughby.
    â€œWhat we want is Towlow,” the sexton said firmly. “Towlow isn’t at all bad at finding things out, though, being a Wesleyan Methodist, as he calls himself, he can’t be expected to want to find out these bloody murderers. I’ll go and get him, shall I, sir?”
    â€œHow fortunate my brother’s staying with me,” Mrs. Major cried out. “He’s in the Navy, you know, and quite used to crime. He even sat on a court-martial once.”
    Miss Willoughby, out of a wider experience, knew better than to commit herself at once. She watched the Archdeacon’s eyes, and, as she saw them glaze at these two suggestions, ventured a remote and disapproving “H’m, h’m!” Even the nicest clergymen, she knew, were apt to have unexpected fads about religion.
    â€œNo,” the Archdeacon said, “I don’t think we’ll ask Towlow. And though, of course, I can’t object to your brother looking at these damaged doors, Mrs. Major, I shouldn’t like him to want to make an arrest. Sacrilege is hardly a thing a priest can prosecute for—not, anyhow, in a present-day court.”
    â€œBut——” Mrs. Major and the sexton began.
    â€œThe immediate thing,” the Archdeacon flowed on, “is the celebration, don’t you think? Jessamine”—this to the sexton—“will you move those candlesticks and get as much of the grease off as you can? Mrs. Major, will you put the frontal straight? Miss Willoughby, will you do what you can to set the other ornaments right? Thank you, thank you. Fortunately the other chalice is at the rectory; I will go and get it.” Then he paused a moment. “And perhaps,” he said gravely, “as