Our journey was up-hill, for which I was quite prepared. The blue and purple outline of the moors formed the horizon line visible from our gardens, whose mistiness or clearness was prophetic of the coming weather, and over which the wind was supposed to blow with uncommon “healthfulness.” I had been there once to blow away the whooping-cough, and I could remember that the sandy road wound up and up, but I did not appreciate till that Sunday how tiring a steady ascent of nearly five miles may be.
We were within sight of the church and within hearing of the bells, when we reached a wayside
trough, whose brimming measure was for ever overflowed by as bright a rill as ever trickled down a hill-side.
“It’s only the first peal,” said Master Isaac, seating himself on the sandy bank, and wiping his brows.
My well-accustomed ears confirmed his statement. The bells moved too slowly for either the second or the third peal, and we had twenty minutes at our disposal.
It was then that I knew (for the first but not the last time) what refreshment for the weary a spotted handkerchief may hold. The bee-master and I divided the sandwiches, and washed them down with handfuls of the running rill, so fresh, so cold, so limpid, that (like the saints and martyrs of a faith) it would convert any one to water-drinking who did not reflect on the commoner and less shining streams which come to us through lead pipes and in evil communication with sewers.
We were cool and tidy by the time that the little “Tom Tinkler” bell began to “hurry up.”
“You’re coming, aren’t you?” said I, checked at the churchyard gate by an instinct of some hesitation on Isaac’s part.
“Well, I suppose I am, sir,” said the bee-master, and in he came.
The thick walls, the stained windows, and the stone floor, which was below the level of the churchyard, made the church very cool. Master Isaac and I seated ourselves so that we had a good view within, and could also catch a peep through the open porch of the sunlit country outside. Charlie’s father was in his place when we got in; his threadbare coat was covered by the white linen of his office, and I do not think it would have been possible even to my levity to have felt anything but a respectful awe of him in church.