"Yes. I couldn't help knowing that much, though I wish they wouldn't."
"It is very good of them. Now I shall call for grace."
The vicar made his way on to the platform and loudly clapped his hands. The tumult died suddenly away into silence, punctuated here and there by a belated rattle of a teacup and the spasmodic choking of some one endeavouring to bolt a large piece of cake in a hurry.
"We will now sing grace," Mr. Byars said in a clear and audible voice,—"the Old Hundred, following our usual custom."
As he spoke a little, bearded man in a frock-coat clambered up beside him. This was Mr. Cuthbert, the organist of the parish church. The little man pulled a tuning-fork from his pocket and struck it on the back of a chair.
Then he held it to his ear for a moment. The people had all risen, and the room was now quite silent.
"La!" sang the little organist, giving the note in a long, melodious call.
He raised his hand, gave a couple of beats in the air, and the famous old hymn burst out royally. The great volume of sound seemed too fierce and urgent even for that spacious room. It pressed against the ear-drums almost with pain, though sung with the perfect time and tune which are the heritage of the sweet-voiced North-country folk:—
"All people that on earth do dwell,
Sing to the Lord with cheerful voice!"