They knew from long experience that the sermon would conclude in exactly two minutes from this point and now there was a general movement, a rustling of Sunday dresses, a shuffling of young feet, eager to be out scampering on the grass, or on the good high road.
There was that movement in the little Church that takes place in a railway carriage when the long, long journey is nearing its end, when the station is almost gained.
Mrs. Colley stepped out briskly and smartly into the sunshine.
"A spryer woman I be than Mrs. Hanson, aye, a spryer and a nimbler I be, so as one 'ud take I for being ten years younger, though we were at school together. See how stiff du be her walk, how she du lean on her umber-rella. 'Lizbeth, take notice how her hand du shake remarkable! Good marning to 'ee, Mrs. Hanson, and 'tis a lovely fine day."
"'Tis:" said Mrs. Hanson briefly.
"A fine marning and a good sarmint," said Mrs. Colley.
"'Tis my favrit sarmint," said Mrs. Hanson, "I were always partial to Nabob's vineyard."
"Miss Dowell du be ageing terribul," said Mrs. Colley.
Mrs. Hanson sniffed. She felt that she was ageing herself, she missed the maid, though she would not admit it to herself. Perilous bad was that maid and disobedient, and she, Mrs. Hanson, was a stern, unbending, unyielding woman.
"Miss Dowell's Mary be growing to a fine maid!" said Mrs. Hanson. She was approaching the vacant space in the pew as it were, step by step.