So Andy rang a quiet one—two—three, one—two—three, through the golden light of a late June afternoon, and afterwards stood alone as usual to read the lovely words of prayer and praise which seem to have been written in an age when men could be poets and yet sincere. An atmosphere of simple goodness and humanity clings like incense about the evening service, and the close of it is—in the dullest, dreariest place—like evening light through a stained window. It leaves such an impression of solemn peace and beauty.
Andy forgot to be annoyed at the absence of a congregation before he reached the exquisite prayer about the perils and dangers of this night, and he walked home quite content. He was not, of course, a model clergyman, or perhaps he would have gone on worrying about the absent flock. And when he got in he found Mr. Thorpe waiting for him.
“Waste of time,” said Mr. Thorpe. “Waste of time! What good does it do?”
Here was a poser! What good did it do?
“Stops me from getting slack,” said Andy, at last.
“Oh, you!” Mr. Thorpe implied that Andy ought to be able to look after his own eternal welfare without any outside help—it was his business.
“And perhaps when people hear the bell going it reminds them of good thoughts,” suggested Andy.
“What if they’re chapel?” said Mr. Thorpe. “There’s more chapel than church in Gaythorpe.”
Andy ceased arguing and called up the senior curate.
“I do what I think right.”